


The Easiest Thing

by Farky_Fark_and_the_Munky_Bunch



Category: One Piece
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Body Worship, Bottom Cavendish, Choking, Frobin, Frottage, LawLu - Freeform, Lingerie, M/M, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Miscommunication, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Photo Shoots, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Semi-Public Sex, Top Bartolomeo, Unprotected Sex, ZoSan - Freeform, a few other brief cameos - Freeform, a few other very minor ships, and Iceburg/Paulie, bisexual Bartolomeo, brief minor recreational drug use, but also discussion about sexual history, but implied switching, but not as a power thing, if that makes a difference, just two boys having a lot of feelings, model Cavendish, pansexual Cavendish, pro wrestler Bartolomeo, some description of panic attack symptoms, they went to high school together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 51,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28983354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farky_Fark_and_the_Munky_Bunch/pseuds/Farky_Fark_and_the_Munky_Bunch
Summary: Cavendish reluctantly gets into an Uber, only to be reunited with his old high school classmate and rival, Bartolomeo, and as unlikely as that is, what's even less expected is just how easily everything else falls into place.
Relationships: Bartolomeo/Cavendish (One Piece)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27
Collections: One Piece Modern AU Connected Universe





	1. Colliding

Cavendish was hungry. No, hungry was too light a word for what he was feeling. Starving… _maybe_ a touch melodramatic, but what was Cavendish if not _that_ at the very least? Starving it was. 

And it was hard to look sultry and nonchalant when your stomach was making sounds better apt for a B-list monster movie. Still, it was his job, and he was good at it. Dare he even say…the _best_? 

Yes, he did dare. Often, and with aplomb.

Cavendish took a deep breath and it only seemed to further agitate his empty stomach, prompting a rumble loud enough for the photographer closest to him to offer a look of concern. Cavendish winked and the cheeks behind the camera went red as the model turned back to stare valiantly into the glare of a half-dozen camera flashes. 

So what if he was starting to feel a little woozy and there were a thousand black dots swimming in his field of vision? It was just one of many small prices he had to be willing to pay to be the best. And that was worth _any_ price. 

“–ish? _Cavendish?_ ”

He shook himself from his trance, the bright and easy smile falling from his lips when he saw that the cameras were no longer trained in his direction. 

“Mm?”

“I was just saying that we’re finished for today. It all looks great. I’ll get in contact with your agent if we need anything else from you before the issue’s published, ‘kay?”

Cavendish murmured his thanks and managed to keep his gait smooth and even until he was safely inside the elevator. Slouching against the support rail, he half-heartedly kicked the heel of his boot against the button for the ground floor and pulled his phone from his pocket. 

There weren’t any messages from Suleiman so presumably, he was still at the shop with Cavendish’s car, which made some form of public transportation an unfortunate necessity. 

The fastest option appeared to be an Uber pool, and while he didn’t love that concept, Cavendish would be nearing his untimely expiration if he didn’t get _something_ to eat, so pool it would have to be. 

He only spent a minute or two clacking his heel impatiently against the sidewalk before his ride appeared and after confirming his driver’s identity, he slid into the backseat and sighed heavily. 

Cavendish couldn’t remember the last time he had really _enjoyed_ a photo shoot, but it had also been a while since one had left him feeling so tired and jaded. Of course, the content of this one had been, well…he didn’t even want to think about it. 

The sound of snoring from the other side of the car’s backseat rudely interrupted his thoughts and he looked up from his phone for just long enough to cast a withering glare at the hulking figure two seats over. As if sleeping so deeply that you were snoring and drooling on yourself in the backseat of a rideshare wasn’t bad enough, the stranger’s outfit was an absolute insult to fashion sense, and really, who thought dyeing their hair _that_ color was a good idea?

He hadn’t seen someone so wholly offensive on the eyes since—

Cavendish’s eyes widened and he did a doubletake, the breath punching from his lungs in an exhale of disbelief. 

_“Bartolomeo?!”_

His voice was more of a screech than he would’ve liked to admit, but it did the trick. 

A pair of dark eyes met his, narrowed and still hazy with the lingering cobwebs of sleep. They stared at each other for what felt like ages and Cavendish couldn’t help the disbelieving huff of laughter that left his lips when the other man’s eyes grew wide. 

“Cabbage, is that you?”

He hadn’t heard that horrible name in over a decade, but all of its associated memories flooded back in an instant. 

“Of course it’s me, Rooster.” Bartolomeo’s old nickname still fit, alarmingly well, his over-gelled high school pompadour replaced with a thick and unruly mohawk, teased away from the rest of his long hair in a high crest. “Do you know anyone else who looks like this?”

Cavendish gestured down at himself and felt warmth bloom across his cheeks when Bartolomeo followed the movement with his eyes, slow, attentive, and eager.

“Nah, ya got me there. What the hell are you doin’ here? Haven’t seen you in like…” Bartolomeo yawned widely and ran his fingers back through his already tousled hair. “Dunno. Whenever high school was. Long time.”

“Yeah, I—” Cavendish hesitated, lost for words. “I was just…going home. I had a photo shoot on this side of town.”

“Photo shoot?” Bartolomeo’s expression was dubious. “What are ya? Some sorta movie star or somethin’?”

“I’m a _model_ ,” Cavendish replied, but any further attempt to educate Bartolomeo was halted by a loud rumble from his stomach. Bartolomeo looked amused and Cavendish flushed in embarrassment. 

“Wanna get lunch, Cabbage?” Barto offered. “I ain’t in a hurry to get where I’m goin’ and there’s a great restaurant not far from here.”

Cavendish wanted to say no, wanted to just go home and avoid this impromptu reunion in its entirety. But there had always been something so _earnest_ about Bartolomeo, and when Cavendish met his gaze, he forgot to make up an excuse. 

“Sure.”

Bartolomeo grinned so widely Cavendish could see the entirety of his oddly sharp canines, leaning forward to let their driver know about their change in destination before settling back in his seat and crossing one leg across the opposite knee. 

After a moment of silence, Cavendish caught Bartolomeo staring and the other man shrugged his broad shoulders at Cavendish’s inquisitive expression. “Just can’t believe I actually ran into you. What are the odds?”

Infinitesimally small, almost certainly. And yet. 

The car pulled up alongside the curb and Bartolomeo hopped out, allowing Cavendish to scoot awkwardly across the seats until he could step onto the sidewalk.

Bartolomeo had to bend nearly in half to lean against the open driver’s side window and talk to their driver, and Cavendish couldn’t help his disbelieving stare. The other man certainly hadn’t been _that_ big when he’d seen him last. Though it looked like he was doing his best to hide it with his clashing clothes and generally unkempt appearance, it seemed puberty had done wonders for Bartolomeo. 

Cavendish felt his stomach do a flip when Bartolomeo straightened back up to his full height and squared his shoulders. _Right,_ he thought distractedly, desperately. _I’m hungry. That’s what this is._

“Oi, Cabbage, ya comin’?”

Cavendish snapped his head around to find Bartolomeo standing at the door, arms crossed and one long leg stuck out to prop it open. He hurried through, muttering his thanks, then followed Bartolomeo to a table in the corner. 

Water was delivered promptly as the waiter greeted Cavendish’s companion by name and Bartolomeo looked over with a grin. 

“You trust me?”

“Uh…” Cavendish didn’t know what the proper answer was, but he shrugged. “Sure.”

Bartolomeo ordered for both of them then slouched down in his chair once they were alone. His long legs stuck out under the table and when they settled comfortably against Cavendish’s primly crossed ankles, Bartolomeo either didn’t notice the contact, or didn’t seem to care. 

“So, what’s been up with you, Cabbage? Give me all the dirty deets.”

Cavendish’s brow furrowed and he took a sip of his water to gather his thoughts. “I’m afraid I might disappoint you, but, I don’t have any particularly dirty _‘deets’_. I started working full-time as a model after graduation and that’s what I’ve been doing ever since. I’m very successful and very good at it, so I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of my work.”

Bartolomeo shook his head, slurping noisily through his straw. 

Cavendish frowned. “No? None of…you haven’t seen _any_ of it?”

“Don’t think so.” Barto shrugged. “Not much for magazines, myself.” His eyes narrowed, expression growing coy. “Do any online work I mighta seen?”

Cavendish flushed darkly at the insinuation. _“No.”_

Bartolomeo snickered and shrugged again. “Too bad.”

 _‘Too bad’?!_ Cavendish suddenly felt like withering away and dying would be a better alternative to sitting here across from an old high school classmate and getting…hit on? Was that what was happening? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time, but this was… _Bartolomeo_ , a man with… _negative_ sex appeal, if any. He could feel sweat beading at his hairline and distractedly dabbed it away with an available napkin.

“What about you?” Cavendish deflected. “Do you…work?”

Bartolomeo snorted. “Yeah, I have a job, Cabbage. I’m a pro wrestler.”

Cavendish’s eyes felt like they were trying to make an escape from his skull. “You’re a _what_?”

 _“Pro.”_ Bartolomeo raised a hand to aid the slow drawl of his words with an equally condescending gesture. _“Wrestler.”_ He stuck a pinky in his ear and watched as Cavendish’s nose wrinkled. “Should get your ears cleaned, Cabbage.”

“I _heard_ you,” Cavendish snapped. “I just…I’ve never…met a pro wrestler.”

“And I’ve never met a model,” Bartolomeo quipped in return. “Yet, here we are. What a wild world we live in.”

Cavendish’s flat, angry stare earned a grin that was as effortless as it was absolutely shit-eating. 

That revelation did go quite a long way toward explaining the obscene amount of muscle Cavendish could tell was packed beneath Bartolomeo’s fur-collared jacket and wide, checkered pants. The image of the younger man sweaty and shirtless in a wrestling ring sprang unbidden to Cavendish’s mind and he thanked whatever higher power was listening that the food arrived before Bartolomeo could see how flustered he was. 

What arrived on the table was two steaming bowls of ramen. Cavendish felt his stomach rumble angrily in protest when Bartolomeo picked up his chopsticks and started shoveling meat into his gaping, ill-mannered mouth. 

Trying to regain the rails of their conversation, Cavendish cleared his throat. “What is it that you do, exactly? As a…wrestler.”

Bartolomeo made a humming sound around a mouthful of noodles and _thank heavens_ , swallowed before answering. 

“Well, I’m a heel, so I get paid to rile up the crowd and then give the face hell.” He saw Cavendish’s blank stare and sighed. “Alright.”

Reaching for the edge of the table, Bartolomeo picked up the salt and pepper shakers and put them between the two of them. “This is me, the heel.” He pointed toward the pepper. “And this is mmm…we’ll go with Hack. He’s the face.” One of his long fingers tapped against the tin cap of the salt shaker. “I guess for a fella like you the words ‘villain’ and ‘hero’ might be easier, but it amounts to the same. I work for NWWE, so the shit I do’s all a show, and my job is to get things rowdy, make the crowd start booin’ and jeerin’ and then either give or take the fall depending on the story.” He played out a brief struggle between the two shakers before giving pepper the victory and spraying salt across the tabletop.

Cavendish cocked an eyebrow. “Do you not want to be the…” He nodded toward the downed salt shaker as Barto started cleaning its spilled entrails with a napkin. “Face, instead?”

Bartolomeo shook his head and resumed eating. “Nah. I like what I do. Plus, I’ve got a record that rather publicly proves I’m a dumbass and my manager, Gambia, plays that into the persona. Besides, just look at me.” He mimicked Cavendish’s gesture from the backseat and Cavendish fell into the same trap.

He looked, boy did he _look_. And sure, with his thin lips, and sharp teeth, and the gold hoop hanging from his septum, Bartolomeo didn’t look like your classic hero. But there was something striking about the odd swoop of his eyeliner, and the barest visible hint of a tattoo across his chest that made Cavendish wish he was wearing considerably less. 

_No. **No!**_

Cavendish found Bartolomeo’s eyes on his when he raised them again, knowing and amused. While Cavendish blushed to the tips of his ears and cursed internally, Bartolomeo smirked, but he had enough decency at least not to call the other man out for his blatant appraisal. 

Instead, he waved a hand toward the untouched bowl in front of Cavendish. “Why aren’t ya eatin’, Cabbage?”

“I don’t like ramen,” Cavendish answered weakly, trying to pull himself from his hunger—yes, _hunger_ —induced daze. 

“You don’t like…” Bartolomeo blew out a disbelieving breath, ruffling the strands of hair that framed his face. After making a gesture toward one of the waiters on the other side of the room, they were given another menu. Cavendish sheepishly ordered a salad as Bartolomeo claimed his ramen. 

While Bartolomeo went to town on his second bowl, Cavendish took a few deep, steadying breaths. When he felt as calm as he could manage given the circumstances, he doubled back to their conversation.

“Did you say you have a record? I know you were a troublemaker back in high school, but what the hell else did you do?”

Barto chuckled, but still looked a little bit chagrined. “Public urination.”

Cavendish rolled his eyes. “How drunk were you?”

Bartolomeo opened his mouth around the soft-boiled egg he had chosen to eat whole. 

“Uh ‘in unk.”

Cavendish had to look away before he gagged. “Christ, Bartolomeo, don’t talk with your mouth full!”

He watched with grotesque fascination as Bartolomeo’s jaw worked, eyes following the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed. 

“I _said_ , I wasn’t drunk.”

Cavendish sighed heavily and Bartolomeo grinned. 

“It’s a good story. You’ll like this one. So, it’s like…a year ago, at that…uh, big alumni party thing that our high school threw for its fifty years or whatever, ya know?”

Cavendish nodded. He hadn’t gone, of course, but Suleiman had mentioned it in passing after he’d deleted the twentieth email Cavendish had received from the alumni association. Knowing that Bartolomeo of all people had attended was enough to confirm that it would have been a mistake to go; too many familiar faces, not all of which would have been pleased to see Cavendish again.

“Okay, yeah. So, _that_. I mingled for a bit, and everyone _else_ was gettin’ smashed, so I drank enough to get a buzz, but nobody was there that I felt like hangin’ around with for long, so I went up to the roof. Remember that spot we used to go to?”

Cavendish snorted. “You mean the roof out by the groggy ring field where you would smoke pot when you were supposed to be in class? The roof I had to drag you off of to go to detention more times than I can count?”

“That’s the one! Anyway, I was up there, lookin’ down across the field, and I just…” He shrugged. “Kinda had to piss and wanted to know if I could make it in the goal.”

“You’re still an idiot then, I see.”

“You weren’t ever much better, Cabbage,” Bartolomeo retorted. “Anyway, there was a security officer by the bleachers who caught me with my pants around my ankles, so I spent the night in jail, had to pay a fine. Just a misdemeanor for disorderly conduct since it was my first arrest, but I’m recognizable enough in my chosen social circles that the news spread pretty fast.”

Cavendish shook his head and breathed out a sigh as Bartolomeo shrugged dismissively. When the waiter arrived with his salad he offered a gracious thank you and dug in, eagerly silencing the protestations of his stomach. 

“Never seen someone so excited about a salad before,” Bartolomeo teased. Cavendish pointedly finished chewing and swallowed before replying.

“I’m starving, and your food of choice tastes like dogshit.” Before Bartolomeo could argue—because judging by the sudden narrowing of his eyes, he really _wanted_ to—Cavendish continued. “Learn anything at the event I should know about? I haven’t kept up with anyone.”

He had seen a few of their former classmates in the decade plus since graduation, but what he’d done with them couldn’t strictly be considered ‘keeping up,’ unless one was attempting a rather weak pun.

“Uh, well, Baby _actually_ got married, and she was pregnant, so I guess they have a kid now. Gilly’s still doing ballet, Ideo’s got some sorta job with…pyrotechnics?” Barto drummed his fingers against the tabletop and considered it for a moment. “Umm…they had just gotten engaged at the time, but I’m sure you’ve heard Paulie and our esteemed mayor are finally gettin’ hitched soon.” His lips morphed into a frown. “I’m so jealous he’s actually gonna be _related_ to two of the Straw Hats. If I had known Iceburg liked younger men I coulda tried to swoop in there before Paulie had the chance to.”

“If Paulie’s his type, I doubt you are,” Cavendish said mildly, earning a grudging nod of concession, and then a shrug.

“Anyway, you weren’t there, so it was just all the people I sorta knew. Nobody interesting.”

Cavendish nodded and turned his attention back to his salad as the waiter brought over their checks. When he glanced down at his and saw that it included both his salad and his ramen he pushed it toward Bartolomeo. 

“You ate it, you’re paying for that.”

Barto frowned and pushed it back. “You said you trusted me and how was I supposed to know your taste in food is shitty? Besides, aren’t you loaded?”

Cavendish pursed his lips. “I suppose it depends on your definition of _loaded_ , but I’m sure I make more than you do.”

“Alright, asshole—”

His retort was cut short when Cavendish swept up both bills and set them on the edge of the table beneath his credit card. 

“The fuck you doin’, Cabbage? I don’t need a pity meal.”

“It isn’t pity, shithead,” Cavendish snapped. “But we’re here because I ended up in your ride and I was hungry. You can get it next time.”

Bartolomeo shot him a puzzled look that he couldn’t quite interpret, and they sat in a tense silence until the waiter returned and gave Cavendish the receipts to sign. 

“Oi, Cabbage. Gimme your phone.”

Cavendish knocked it across the table with his elbow as he wrote his flowing signature across the slips of paper. 

Bartolomeo snorted when he saw that Cavendish’s lock screen image was a photo of the model himself and he poised a finger above it in anticipation. “Code?”

“228363474.”

If Barto was able to make the connection, he stayed quiet about it, and after a minute he slid the phone back around to Cavendish. 

“There. Put my number in so I can’t bug ya, but you can get ahold of me if ya ever wanna…do whatever.”

Cavendish nodded and rose smoothly from his seat as Bartolomeo’s chair scraped across the ground. They walked to the door and then stood awkwardly for a moment on the sidewalk outside, Cavendish looking at his phone while Bartolomeo shuffled his feet. 

“I think I’m gonna just walk,” Barto said when Cavendish made no attempt to say anything. Cavendish nodded absently as the other man hitched a thumb over his shoulder and they made brief eye contact.

Bartolomeo shifted his hands idly into his pockets when Cavendish wordlessly held his stare and the stance pulled just enough at his thin t-shirt to strain the fabric across his pecs and broad shoulders. It took Cavendish a little longer than was strictly necessary to turn his gaze back to his phone.

“‘Kay, well.” Bartolomeo turned away, raising one hand in a parting gesture as he set off across the sidewalk. “Later, Cabbage.”

“Bye, Rooster.” Cavendish waited until he was sure he wouldn’t be caught before looking up toward Bartolomeo’s retreating form with puzzled contemplation.

What a strange and interesting turn of events.

* * *

In the end, Cavendish was able to make it for two whole weeks before he found himself scrolling purposefully through his contacts. 

_‘Hello. This is Cavendish. I’ve been busy, but I didn’t want you to think I lost your number.’_

Why he cared what Bartolomeo may or may not have been thinking about his silence, he couldn’t say. He was just…being polite, that was all.

His phone chimed a few minutes later and he had to keep himself from scrambling for it eagerly. _‘Put my # in myself so glad u r not that dumb.’_ The message was accompanied by an emoji of what appeared to be a head of lettuce, which—oh. Cavendish scowled. 

Another message appeared as he was still frowning down at the screen. _‘Was hoping u would text. Saw this yesterday.’_ The attached picture was of Bartolomeo posing with Cavendish’s most recent cover, the one he had done as a celebration of his thirtieth birthday. The one he absolutely _despised_. Bartolomeo had his freakishly long tongue sticking out from between his teeth and his middle finger raised. _‘Happy bday Cabbage sorry I missed it old man.’_

Cavendish stared at the picture for a long time. He hated that issue because he knew it meant his days at the top of his craft were waning. He was _thirty_ now for God’s sake, and the other day he had actually found a grey hair amidst the blond. He shuddered at the memory. But, looking at it again, it didn’t look as bad as he had remembered. Maybe it just looked better when Bartolomeo’s ugly, sneering face was next to it. That was probably it.

Tossing his phone away, Cavendish moved to his desk and tapped his fingers absently against it as his laptop booted up. He really _had_ been busy, but he had also been making a concentrated effort to forget about Bartolomeo. It had been easy enough after he’d graduated—hell, he’d barely spared a single thought for the other man until he’d run into him again. But, now, he couldn’t _stop_ thinking about him, and Cavendish didn’t like that. His best bet was to maintain contact for just long enough to remember why he and Bartolomeo had never gotten along, and when that happened and whatever vague and entirely physical attraction he _might_ be feeling went away, he could cut the cord again without any regrets. 

He typed ‘Bartolomeo’ into the search bar, and then, after trying and failing to come up with his last name, added ‘wrestler.’ A Wikipedia article greeted him and Cavendish was relieved to find out he wouldn’t have to dig any deeper when the page loaded with a picture of his Bartolomeo—well, no, but the Bartolomeo _he knew_ —at its center. 

He read through it, trying to glean any details he felt were important. They called him Barto the Cannibal, and with his wide eyes wild and teeth bared, Cavendish could see why. He read about his rise through the wrestling world, skipped the sections about his early life and his arrest, and then hovered his cursor over the ‘personal life’ section for a long moment. When his finger twitched it unscrolled and, well, if it was _open_ , he might as well.

_Since his entrance in the wrestling scene, he has never made a public statement about a relationship or been seen with anyone who it appeared he could be dating. He is presumably single._

Cavendish’s teeth worried absently at his bottom lip. Presumably single. Okay. Not that that detail mattered, at all, for any reason.

He backed out of the article and clicked on the word ‘images’ before he could change his mind.

For two busy, distracted weeks, Cavendish had been trying to convince himself that he felt nothing more than passing interest toward the man he’d once known as a kid. Anything more would be pointless and bizarre. He was…well, God, he was _Cavendish_. He could have _anyone_ he wanted, and had, for most of his life. Why would he feel even a shred of attraction for someone so brash and irritating and offensive?

That said, all it took was a single picture of a battered and bare-chested Bartolomeo straddling another man to confirm quite the opposite. Cavendish let a long breath whistle out from between his teeth and…yeah. Alright. There was definitely blood rushing eagerly toward his dick. 

_Fuck._

* * *

Bartolomeo was relieved when a text finally arrived from Cavendish, formal and stilted as it was. He knew he’d made a gamble giving the other man control of reaching out, but come on, he had to play it at least a _little_ cool. There was a part of him, a rather large part actually, that had been sure Cavendish would never say anything. He’d seemed perfectly content to forget about Bartolomeo’s existence for twelve years, and yet…if he had never said anything in the backseat of that car, Bartolomeo would’ve slept straight through their reunion, and never would’ve been any the wiser. 

It’s not like he hadn’t noticed the way Cavendish looked at him during their lunch, but he’d always been that way. Things were different when Bartolomeo was sixteen and considerably more gangly, sure, but Cavendish was the type of guy who knew anyone would kill to be with him, and he had never hesitated to flirt his way to popularity and affection. 

That didn’t make it any less foolish that Bartolomeo had fallen for it. If anything, it proved what a dumbass he was. Even Luffy-senpai was more attainable, and Barto yearned for them in equal but different ways. 

Well, maybe not _equal_. But Cavendish was a close second. 

After all, Cavendish had been the target of all of Bartolomeo’s hormone-fueled high school longing, and although he hadn’t spent twelve years pining over him, Cavendish was exceedingly famous and Bartolomeo hadn’t ever been able to forget his attraction to the other man. Over the years, he’d bought a few—maybe more than a few—of the magazines that showcased the work of the man dubbed ‘the Prince of Fashion,’ and in the times when Barto was single and horny, which was, admittedly, more often than not, Cavendish was an easy enough fantasy to entertain.

He’d allowed himself the vain hope that he might actually be able to reconnect with Cavendish someday, but after striking out at the alumni dinner, Bartolomeo had tried to accept that he would never see the other man again in his life.

Then, just like that, he was back. They had fallen quickly back into a familiar pattern of name-calling and provocative banter, and it almost felt like no time had passed at all. Except that _Jesus ever-loving **fuck**_ Cavendish had gotten even _hotter_. The many glamorous photos that Barto had seen both publicly and in his private collection hardly did justice to the real thing.

He had to admit, seeing Cavendish’s scandalized expression when he’d claimed to have never seen his work was worth the lie. As was keeping his persistent infatuation a secret, indefinitely. 

It was a few days after Cavendish’s text that Bartolomeo grew tired of waiting to hear from him again and decided to bite the bullet. 

Cavendish answered on the third ring, sounding distracted. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, Cabbage. What’s up?”

He heard Cavendish sigh. “‘What’s up?’ You’re the one who called, Barto. You tell me.”

The non-mocking nickname did not escape Bartolomeo’s notice. 

“Well…” Bartolomeo scrambled for something to say. On second thought, he probably should have thought this through a little better before calling. Or, at all. “There’s a new horror movie out tonight and Gambia’s a fuckin’ pansy so he won’t want to see it and I don’t like goin’ to movies alone so…”

“Are you trying to ask me something, Rooster?” There was a teasing lilt to his voice and Bartolomeo scowled up at the ceiling. 

“Yeah. Wanna watch you shit your pants at the jump scares. Sound like a plan?”

Cavendish’s laughter was bright and playful and it made Bartolomeo want to scream. 

“Alright, but we’ll see who does the pants-shitting. Not that you’d even be able to discern an extra stain on your pants.”

“Fuck you, Cabbage.”

“Sorry, Barto, I’m not that easy. Take me out for dinner first.”

 ** _Fucking hell._**

“Eight tonight?” The question hissed out from between gritted teeth. 

“I suppose I can clear my schedule.”

“Good. Do it.”

Cavendish made a soft humming sound. “Just for you, Rooster.”

Bartolomeo felt his heart stutter, absolutely certain that he was imagining the fondness he heard in Cavendish’s voice. Before either of them could say anything else Bartolomeo would regret, he pulled the phone from his ear and hung up. 

Cavendish would likely scold him for his lack of proper phone etiquette when he saw him that evening, but Bartolomeo couldn’t honestly say that he wasn’t looking forward to it. He had always been a sucker for Cavendish’s teasing, and just like every other feeling he’d ever harbored for the other man, that was one more thing he’d never quite managed to shake.

* * *

Bartolomeo made a concerted effort to dress somewhat respectably for their outing. He found a pair of pinstriped pants crumpled at the bottom of his closet that lost enough of their wrinkles after a tumble in the dryer, and paired them with a plain white t-shirt under a green tartan sweater vest. Vests and pinstripes were fashionable, he was…pretty sure, so putting them together had to be doing something positive. 

Or, judging by Cavendish’s disbelieving stare, maybe not. 

“Were those the _only_ three clean pieces of clothing at your house? Because I really can’t imagine why else they would be together. On you. Like _that_.”

“Don’t be an asshole, Cabbage,” Bartolomeo grumbled, only growing more irritated when he felt his cheeks prickle with heat. Cavendish was looking effortlessly gorgeous in a low-cut dress shirt and tight white jeans, and Bartolomeo was trying his best to hide how much it pissed him off. And turned him on. “We can’t all look good in purple.”

Cavendish’s eyes fell to his shirt in surprise and he absently smoothed it across his slender waist. “Yeah? I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.”

Bartolomeo nodded dumbly, the movement of Cavendish’s hands drawing his eyes to the tantalizing triangle of skin bared by the deep v of his collar. “Yeah. Looks great on you.” When Cavendish’s gaze met his, soft and searching, Bartolomeo hastily continued. “The color. I mean, it’s—it’s _fine_. C’mon. I already got our tickets.”

Cavendish covered the popcorn and drinks and Bartolomeo let him choose their seats, silently hoping that he would move toward the back of the theater. Not that anything untoward was going to happen, of course, but it was considerably easier to daydream about making out in the back row when you were actually _in_ the back row. 

They settled near the middle, in a row above an aisle so Cavendish could prop his long legs up on the barrier in front of them. As if Bartolomeo needed one more thing to distract him for the evening. 

Barto tried to focus on whatever was playing on the screen, but he was too aware of how _close_ Cavendish was. Close enough that their elbows were sharing space on the armrest between them and every time Cavendish shifted slightly to reach the popcorn in Bartolomeo’s lap, he could smell the floral scent of his shampoo. 

When his eyes inevitably wandered back to Cavendish, he found the other man watching him silently. Bartolomeo gave him a questioning look and Cavendish held up a piece of popcorn between two long, slender fingers. 

“Can you still do it?”

Barto’s frown turned instantly to a grin and he nodded eagerly, angling himself in his seat so there was a little more throwing space between them. Cavendish tossed the popcorn high in the air and uttered a delighted laugh when Bartolomeo caught it easily in his open mouth as it fell. 

“Too easy. Gimme two.”

Cavendish obeyed, flicking one up after the other. Bartolomeo caught the first and then darted his tongue out to capture the second and usher it back toward his teeth.

When he looked back at Cavendish the other man’s eyes were wide, his lips parted slightly in an expression of surprise. 

Before Bartolomeo could question him, the previews began and Cavendish shushed him when he tried to speak over them. Falling silent, he turned his attention toward the screen.

The movie was actually, surprisingly, quite good. Good enough at least that Bartolomeo would accept Gambia’s as of yet unanswered invitation to go see it together. Even so, it couldn’t quite keep his full attention. Not when the flickering effect of the moving images made Cavendish intermittently _glow_ , his pale skin and golden curls reflecting every flash of light. Not when their fingers kept meeting as they neared the bottom of the popcorn tub, and instead of pulling away, Cavendish fought him for the half-popped kernels. 

There _was_ an effective jump scare, and Bartolomeo would probably get halfway to shitting his pants when he watched it again, but by the time it was half an hour in, he didn’t even know what was happening in the movie anymore. He heard the collective gasp of the theater, watched as Cavendish jolted in his seat. His eyes were wide, high cheekbones flushed red with mounting embarrassment, and when something assumedly thrilling happened on screen, his nails dug reflexively into the armrest. 

Or, they would’ve, if Bartolomeo’s arm hadn’t fully claimed it. If Cavendish noticed, he gave no indication, but Bartolomeo was left reeling. He wasn’t sixteen anymore, so he didn’t blush and shyly pull away when his crush brushed his arm. No, they were both adults, and instead the pinch of Cavendish’s nails had a direct line to Bartolomeo’s cock, already half-hard from thirty minute’s worth of blatant ogling. It was all he could do to bite back a moan. 

It felt like he was being branded, Cavendish’s fingernails leaving deep, stinging crescents in the skin of Bartolomeo’s forearm. It felt _good_ , _**so** good_, and dear God, Bartolomeo had never been so acutely aware of how long he’d gone without getting laid. Not that Cavendish wouldn’t have that effect on him anyway. The man was a fucking Adonis, and Barto was fairly certain that he would be just as wound up if he’d gotten a thorough dicking right before the movie. 

His mind was somewhere very far away when the sound of Cavendish’s voice brought him back. “Do you want to head to the bathroom with me and get on your knees?” His breath was hot against Bartolomeo’s ear, raising the hair on the nape of his neck, and he was pretty sure he could feel his soul leaving his body.

_“W-what?!”_

Cavendish swatted Bartolomeo’s chest as his voice carried in the hushed theater, earning more than a few disgruntled glares. Bartolomeo’s breath caught harshly in his throat. 

“I said I’m heading to the bathroom and would you let me know what I missed, please? My God, Bartolomeo, it isn’t _that_ scary. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Sorry, I uh…” Bartolomeo swallowed thickly, wishing that the seat beneath him would just swallow him up and let him disappear forever. Cavendish lifted a finger to his lips and Bartolomeo made an effort to soften his voice that didn’t quite work. He really didn’t have a volume much lower than a shout. “The last one got me. Go—go ahead, I’ll stay here.”

Cavendish gave him one last confused glance before ducking out of the row and making his graceful exit. 

Ignoring the dirty looks still being thrown in his direction, Bartolomeo slouched down in his seat and buried his face in his hands. His whole body felt like it was thrumming in time with his racing pulse, and at this point, he was fairly certain that dropping a piece of popcorn in his lap would be enough to make him blow a load in his pants. Goddamn Cavendish and his stupid, sexy…self.

After a moment, Bartolomeo parted his fingers just enough to see the screen. There was no way he could still maintain any semblance of normalcy if Cavendish came back and he couldn’t tell him a single thing that had happened. 

The man on screen was being rather violently dismembered, and Bartolomeo was relieved when the obscene amount of blood spouting from his severed head mellowed the insistence of his arousal. 

By the time Cavendish slipped back into the seat beside him and leaned expectantly into his side, Bartolomeo was able to not only breathe, but speak without stuttering, which felt like quite the victory. 

He actually managed to watch the last hour or so of the movie, but when they left the darkness of the theater and he could clearly see the way Cavendish’s eyes sparkled with excitement, a great deal of his progress in calming down was unraveled. 

“It was actually pretty good,” Cavendish said, dropping his empty cup in the nearest trashcan and plucking the popcorn bucket from Bartolomeo’s hands to do the same. “Thanks for the invitation.”

“Yeah, well.” Bartolomeo stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Probably wasn’t as fun as whatever else ya had planned.”

“Mmm.” The noncommittal sound pressed Cavendish’s full lips into a thin line. “Well, I had something set up with a woman who matched with me on Tinder, but,” He waved a hand dismissively. “There’ll be another.”

“Sure. Yeah.” With his eyes straight ahead, Cavendish couldn’t see the tight grind of Bartolomeo’s jaw.

“I have quite a bit going on this week, but are you going to be free on…Sunday morning?”

Bartolomeo shook his head to clear it. “Uh, should be. Why?”

“Since you subjected me to a restaurant that specialized in ramen of all things, I wanted to take you out to Café Bar La Baltad for brunch.”

Bartolomeo offered a rough, disbelieving snort. “Alright, first off, Cabbage, they have the best ramen in town and no way in hell will I let you shit talk it. Second… _brunch_?”

Cavendish nodded, lithe body practically wiggling in excitement at the prospect. “Mmhm! Mimosas…French toast…” He pointedly licked his grinning lips as Bartolomeo breathed out a shaky sigh. 

“You hate me, don’tcha?”

Cavendish laughed, sending a sweet, innocent smile up at Bartolomeo. “I thought you already knew that.”

Bartolomeo stuck his foot out to trip Cavendish but the other man recovered smoothly, barely breaking the rhythm of his stride as he kicked out at Barto’s ankle in retaliation and headed for the exit. Frowning, Bartolomeo flipped him off behind his back and Cavendish, momentarily distracted by his own reflection in the glass door before them, failed to notice. 

When they were back outside, Cavendish turned to look up at Bartolomeo, thin eyebrows lifted. “So? Is it a date?”

Bartolomeo sighed heavily, wishing that he couldn’t hear the joking, needling tone of Cavendish’s question, and already regretting what he knew his answer would be.

“Sure, Cabbage. It’s a date.”

* * *

After their first few outings, Bartolomeo and Cavendish established something of an unspoken schedule. One of them would wait a day or two before nonchalantly mentioning a local restaurant they hadn’t been to yet, and they would find a time to meet for a meal between their other engagements. Then, when the weekend arrived, the other would search—okay, fine, _scour_ —the Internet for an event that was close enough and easy enough to attend without the need for any real planning. 

This pattern continued for a few weeks, slowly, silently evolving. Cavendish absently mentioned when and where one of his interviews was being held and when he finished up half an hour late, tired and disgruntled, he found Bartolomeo dozing in the lobby with a lap full of takeout. It even included one of the rosewater blondies from Café Caramel that Bartolomeo had very disinterestedly listened to him ramble on about over lunch the week before. To say it made Cavendish’s day would be an understatement.

As repayment, Cavendish had an assortment of the type of cheap sweets that Barto was always somehow pulling from the depths of his pockets sent to the arena before one of his matches. When he received a picture of a grinning Bartolomeo with his thumb up and his mouth full of cupcake crumbs in lieu of thanks, Cavendish promptly sent him the vomiting emoji and saved the picture to his camera roll. 

Still, they always met somewhere in public. There was something too casually intimate about the prospect of being together at one of their respective homes. They were past the point of acquaintances now, that much was obvious, but friends seemed like something of a stretch given how often their conversations devolved into mocking arguments or heated bickering. 

Whatever the appropriate label, the relationship that existed between them _was_ different. Now, when Cavendish had a shoot, Bartolomeo demanded behind-the-scenes pictures, and it made the work he did lose the monotony it had begun to develop. Now, when Bartolomeo rolled a joint, Cavendish asked for a hit, and damn if watching prim, proper Cavendish get high for the first time in his life wasn’t worth all the trouble he’d gotten teenage Barto in for smoking on school grounds. Now, when Bartolomeo made a stupid joke at Cavendish’s expense, he would find an excuse to touch him: flicking, pinching, once even placing his palm over Bartolomeo’s mouth and getting very flustered when the younger man unthinkingly opted to _lick_ it.

As it continued, the nature of their relationship deepened gradually, naturally.

Cavendish quickly learned that Bartolomeo was quite legitimately the number one fan of the world boxing champion known as Straw Hat Luffy and his close circle of friends, the self-proclaimed Straw Hat crew. He changed from the vague memory of a cocky, annoying teenager in Cavendish’s mind to a man who was fiercely loyal despite his laid-back attitude, who loved inane prank shows more than Cavendish loved everything except Farul and his own popularity, and who looked nothing short of stunning when he smiled wide enough to crinkle his nose and raise his septum ring up from the bow of his lips. 

For Bartolomeo, things didn’t change quite as much. He still thought Cavendish was simultaneously the single most beautiful and irritating man he had ever met, but he also became someone who teared up at ASPCA commercials and had once had aspirations to become an Olympic fencer. 

By late September they were talking every day, at least over text if not by phone for a few hours at a time. For the most part, their conversations consisted of the type of idle chatter shared between two people who knew each other well enough not to care about finding something to discuss. They just talked, letting the conversation follow discordant trains of thought as they arose or dropping to comfortable silence until one of them thought of something else worth saying.

And sometimes, it was more, even if they didn’t acknowledge it. One night they talked long enough for the day to change, about nothing in particular. The way that Bartolomeo devolved into a nervous ramble every time the conversation seemed to falter kept Cavendish from ending the call, long after he had reached the stage of drooping eyelids and suppressed yawns, and Bartolomeo used Cavendish’s voice to keep him company, carrying him out of the anniversary of his parents’ death and into a day that was more like any other.

Not long after, following the news that a job he’d been campaigning for had been given to a newer, younger model, Cavendish found himself pulled over on the side of the road, deep in the throes of an anxiety attack that for one of the first times in his life Suleiman wasn’t around to talk him down from. Without even thinking about it, he called Bartolomeo, and the other man’s tone shifted rapidly from confused to worried to as calm and reassuring as he could manage while simultaneously Googling what the hell he was supposed to do. 

A few minutes of awkward but well-meaning encouragement and some coaxing on Bartolomeo’s part to get Cavendish talking about his recent visit to see Farul had the tightness of his chest loosening steadily, his breath a little more even each time it stuttered out from his lungs. When the feeling had faded completely, he felt foolish and guilty, but Bartolomeo firmly denied his apologies, staying on the line and updating Cavendish on his upcoming series of fights until the older man was safely at home and had been able to take his medication. 

Any amount of introspection would have revealed that they had grown almost astonishingly close in a few short weeks, but they each had their own reasons to keep from overthinking it and so instead they kept their relationship casual, meeting when they could, talking when they couldn’t, and leaving it at that. 

Fall Fashion Week fell at the end of the month and took Cavendish off of the island for a while, but when Suleiman insisted that he stay and schmooze with important figures for a few extra days, he promptly and emphatically refused. 

Ignoring his manager’s protests, Cavendish traveled back home, arriving early on the morning of October 6th and calling Bartolomeo repeatedly until he answered. 

“ _Fuckin’ hell_ , Cabbage, what do you _want_?” Bartolomeo sounded rightfully grumpy for the rude awakening and Cavendish couldn’t help imagining the other man looking rather adorably disheveled. 

“How do you feel about the fair?”

A long pause followed his question. Cavendish was about to check and see if Bartolomeo had hung up on him when he finally replied. “You woke me up at the ass crack of dawn to ask how I feel about the fair? I dunno, it’s…fine, I guess? Haven’t been since I was a kid.”

“Good!” Cavendish said brightly, choosing to ignore the lukewarm response. “We’re going. I already got passes. It opens today, and I should be done with my errands by three, so text me your address and be ready for me to come pick you up.”

Bartolomeo breathed a short sigh into the receiver. “I thought you were still out…wherever. Kissin’ asses and whatnot. Did ya come home early?”

“Yes. You didn’t have any other plans for today did you?”

“No. Gambia told me to take today off cause,” Bartolomeo hesitated. “He’s feelin’ nice I guess.”

Cavendish couldn’t help but grin at the evasion. The less Barto thought he knew, the better. “Great. I’ll see you at three then. Wear something warm.”

Before Bartolomeo could argue, he ended the call and began his preparations.

* * *

When Bartolomeo looked out the window at three o’clock on the dot, Cavendish was pulling into the driveway, just as he had expected. Deciding to be difficult just because Cavendish had been acting so weird all day, he moved back to sit on his couch and stayed there for a solid five minutes, ignoring Cavendish’s series of texts announcing his arrival and chastising Bartolomeo for his lack of punctuality. 

It wasn’t until Cavendish laid on his horn that Bartolomeo opted to get up, taking his time locking his front door before strolling over to the passenger side door. Cavendish’s fingers were tapping impatiently against the steering wheel as Bartolomeo ducked in, cranking the seat all the way back.

“Took you long enough. Are you ready?”

Bartolomeo shrugged and hauled his feet up onto the dashboard. “Sure.”

Cavendish shoved his heels back down to the floor and they glared at each other for a moment before Bartolomeo conceded and turned to look grumpily out the window instead. 

After a couple of minutes, Cavendish looked back over toward Bartolomeo. “Do you ever listen to me? I told you to wear something warm.”

Barto looked down at his t-shirt and jeans. He thought it was an outfit he couldn’t possibly mess up, but apparently nothing he owned met Cavendish’s standards. “Yeah, but everything I’ve got is short-sleeved except my coat and I didn’t wanna wear that somewhere so busy. It’s kinda recognizable.”

Cavendish huffed at his response and took one hand off the wheel to reach toward the backseat. After a moment of fumbling, he grabbed something and tossed it into Bartolomeo’s lap. 

“Put this on.”

Holding it up, Bartolomeo frowned. “Is this a sweater?”

“Yes.”

“No way in hell something of yours’ll fit me, Cabbage.”

“It isn’t mine,” Cavendish answered smoothly, not taking his eyes off of the road. “I would never wear something that color, it’s absolutely horrid for my complexion. I saw it while I was shopping this morning and it made me think of you. It’s that same ugly green you insist on dyeing your hair and you have some strange obsession with checkers, so I thought argyle might appeal to you.”

Bartolomeo stared at it for another long moment. It looked soft and well-made, and probably expensive. And Cavendish had bought it because it reminded him of him. Huh.

Setting it onto the dashboard, Bartolomeo brought his hands to the collar of his t-shirt, the rustling of the fabric hiding the sound of Cavendish’s veritable squeak of surprise. 

Once the sweater was on and he threw his old shirt into the backseat, he looked back toward Cavendish and found him with his eyes straight forward, knuckles white against the steering wheel. 

“Thanks I guess.”

A rosy flush crept up to the tips of Cavendish’s ears as he spoke through gritted teeth. “You didn’t have to take your other one _off_ , idiot Rooster.”

“Oh. Well, I can take this back off and then put the t-shirt back on and then put the sweater back over it—”

“ _No!_ Christ, just, keep your clothes on, Bartolomeo!”

Bartolomeo shrugged and looked back out the window. “Whatever ya say, Cabbage. No need to get your panties in a wad.”

Cavendish was still fuming for the rest of the drive, but when the curve of a massive Ferris wheel appeared over the next hill, his scowl morphed into a grin. 

“How excited are you?”

“Not…very?” Bartolomeo offered hesitantly. When Cavendish’s face fell, a twinge of guilt twisted in his gut. He sighed. “I mean. Okay, like…six outta ten? I told you, Cavendish, I ain’t been to the fair since I was a kid. Like, even before we knew each other. Yay high Barto.” He made a vague gesture at the level of his hip. “I’m sure it’ll be fun.”

Cavendish didn’t even hear most of whatever Bartolomeo was saying. It had been almost two months now since they had reconnected and every time Bartolomeo felt the need to address him directly, it was always, unfailingly, ‘Cabbage.’ Cavendish tended to respond in kind, but had noticed himself slipping back to ‘Barto’ more and more often. Bartolomeo had gotten sloppy over text a couple times, but this was the first time Cavendish had actually heard the other man say his name, and the way it sounded in his deep, brash voice made up for any shit he had to say about the fair.

A loud snap in front of his face made him jump and Cavendish found Bartolomeo leaning across the center console toward him with an annoyed expression. 

“Get it together, Cabbage. Dunno where you just were, but we need to start lookin’ for a place to park.”

Nodding, Cavendish pulled over onto the large lawn where they were directed, dropping Bartolomeo off at the end of one of the middle rows and letting him help direct the car into a tight, but available spot. Bartolomeo was standing and staring up at the Ferris wheel when Cavendish joined him, hands in his pockets and legs akimbo. 

“We goin’ up there?”

Cavendish looked up at him. “Do you want to?”

Bartolomeo hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe. Later. When it’s dark out and we can see all the lights.”

Cavendish nodded and started for the gate. “Come on.”

As Bartolomeo had assumed, it was busy, owing to the nice weather and it being the fair’s opening weekend. Although he knew it wasn’t likely, he hoped that nobody would recognize either of them. He wasn’t sure why Cavendish was so excited about being there, but the eager gleam of his eyes was enough to mellow any of Bartolomeo’s misgivings and he selfishly wanted to enjoy it all for himself. 

“In the spirit of honesty,” Cavendish chirped brightly, standing with his hands on his hips. “Is there anything you _don’t_ want to do here?” His gaze slid upward and his lips quirked into a smile. “You can tell me if you’re scared of rollercoasters, I won’t judge you for it.”

“Not scared of ‘coasters, Cabbage,” Bartolomeo replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I’m vetoing bumper cars. Bad experience as a kid.”

Cavendish stifled a giggle. “Alright. Let’s go.”

They made the rounds to most of the rides that the fair had to offer, excluding bumper cars, and doubling back around to the pirate ship because, well…Barto thought it was pretty fun. He had to admit, the whole affair was more enjoyable than he ever remembered it being when he was young.

A couple hours had passed by the time they made it through the last ride on their list. They walked side by side along the midway, glancing toward the stalls they passed and trying not to trip over the seemingly endless horde of running children. 

“Gonna end up punting a brat,” Barto intoned dryly after a wayward elbow caught him firmly in the side. 

Cavendish shrugged. “Most of them probably deserve it.”

When Bartolomeo’s stomach rumbled irritably, he made a sudden stop, nearly causing Cavendish to collide with his broad back. He sidestepped gracefully, moving back to Barto’s side. 

“What is it?”

Bartolomeo pointed wordlessly at the stall in front of them. When Cavendish sighed, Bartolomeo looked down at him with a grin. 

“You have to try at least one thing here.”

“Barto, I don’t—”

“You want me to have a good time, don’tcha?” 

His eyes were pleading, bright with excitement. Cavendish felt his knees wobble.

“Fine. But my figure is going to suffer and I want you to know that it’s your fault. Do I at least get to choose which one?”

Bartolomeo nodded and grabbed Cavendish by the elbow to pull him into the line. “I’ll pay in case ya hate it.”

Cavendish spent their time waiting to reach the front studying the menu board and trying to weigh his options. The fact that he was considering this at all was a testament to how much he had grown to care about the grinning man-child beside him.

When they arrived at the little window, Bartolomeo leaned down, propping his elbows on the counter. “One corn dog, some deep fried Oreos, a deep fried twinkie and…” He looked down at Cavendish, who shouldered his larger companion out of the way to speak for himself. “I’d like to try the…deep fried cheesecake on a stick, please.”

After Bartolomeo withdrew an exorbitant amount of money from his wallet, they stepped aside to wait. Barto was still smiling widely and Cavendish sighed again. “I hope I don’t regret this. I will absolutely not be forced to use one of those horrible portable toilets while we’re here.”

Bartolomeo cackled and bent down to lessen their height difference. “ _That_ would make my night.”

Cavendish scowled, jabbing an angry finger into Bartolomeo’s chest. “Not a chance, shithead.”

Returning his hands to his pockets and squaring his shoulders, Bartolomeo shrugged smugly. “We’ll see.”

The tables nearby were all full so when their food was ready, Cavendish offered to hold the tray it came on, seeing as most of what they had ordered was for Bartolomeo. They settled in the swiftly lengthening shadows of the stall and Bartolomeo reached eagerly for the twinkie in the center of the tray. 

Cavendish was looking up at him absently when he started to eat and really, he should’ve known better than to do that by now, given Bartolomeo’s history of terrible table manners. However, this was worse. _So_ much worse. Cavendish couldn’t look away as Bartolomeo casually took the entire thing into his mouth before biting down. He wasn’t even looking at Cavendish; there was no coy wink or any other sign of acknowledgement of what he was doing to his friend as a bit of cream oozed out from between his lips and was captured by the tip of his tongue.

Something akin to a whimper managed to escape Cavendish and when Bartolomeo glanced toward him, the ridge of his brow raised in a silent question, Cavendish looked desperately for anything else to focus on.

The sound of Bartolomeo’s teeth gnashing processed bread and cream filling in his open mouth was enough to at least dull the hot lance of arousal in Cavendish’s gut and the older man took a deep, shaky breath before daring to look back at him.

“You’re disgusting.”

Barto’s teeth bared in a feral grin, cream and fried cake crumbs escaping through the gap created by his prominent canines. “Thanks. You should try yours.”

Passing the tray over to Bartolomeo, Cavendish picked up his wedge of suspiciously solid cheesecake and took a tentative bite.

“Well?”

Cavendish took a bigger bite and swallowed before answering. “It’s not terrible, actually.”

“See?” Bartolomeo’s smile was triumphant. “I knew you’d end up likin’ it.”

Yes, well, even Cavendish himself had been struggling to figure out his drastically changing tastes. 

“I got the others for you to try if ya want, but I’ll eat ‘em if ya don’t.”

Cavendish snagged one of the Oreos and munched on it pensively before finishing off his cheesecake and leaving the rest for Bartolomeo. He left the corndog for last and as he picked it up, Cavendish swiftly excused himself to throw away their trash and return the tray to the stall. No way in _hell_ was he going to stand there and watch Bartolomeo unthinkingly deepthroat a goddamn _foot-long corndog_. Damn carnivals and their needlessly phallic food.

“Alright,” Bartolomeo said when he returned. “I’m at a solid seven outta ten now. What’s next?”

“I think we should at least try out a couple of the games while we’re here, don’t you?”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

They had only been walking for a few minutes when Bartolomeo noticed a young woman across the midway pointing in their direction and he tensed, moving unconsciously closer to Cavendish’s side. Despite his glare, she approached them, blushing furiously when Cavendish cast a quizzical look in her direction.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered shyly. “But you’re…you’re Cavendish Prince, aren’t you? The model?”

Bartolomeo scoffed and stepped aside as Cavendish’s face lit up in a grin. “Yes, it’s a pleasure.” When he bent and kissed the back of her hand, Bartolomeo’s eyes rolled so hard he thought he might lose them in the back of his skull.

The girl asked Cavendish if it would be okay to take a picture with him, and then she was nervously holding her phone out toward Bartolomeo. 

“Could you take a picture of us, mister?”

He offered a grunt of assent and positioned the phone in his hands as she scurried back to stand beside Cavendish. The first time the flash went off, Cavendish was smiling widely, but then his eyes shifted away from the camera, up toward Bartolomeo, and Barto was hardly even aware of taking another picture as Cavendish flashed him a wink.

The young woman thanked Cavendish profusely, but before she could run away back to the man she was with, Cavendish stopped her.

“Excuse me, Miss. If you don’t mind, would you take a picture of us now, please?”

A rough, disbelieving “huh?” was startled out of Bartolomeo as Cavendish smoothly pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to the girl. Always aware of angles and proper posing, Cavendish slotted himself comfortably against Bartolomeo’s side, one of his hands splaying across Barto’s chest as the younger man stood stiffly beside him. 

“Come on, Rooster,” Cavendish needled. “You know how to smile don’t you?”

Hand weakly falling to Cavendish’s waist, Bartolomeo bared his teeth in something that approximated a rather uncomfortable grin when the camera flashed. Blinking to clear his vision, his eyes fell toward Cavendish’s bright smile and his expression softened as a second flash went off.

After thanking the girl, Cavendish flipped between the photos for a moment, posed expression falling from his features as he hummed thoughtfully and swiped his index finger in a series of commands. “I sent one to myself,” he explained, before casually slipping the phone back into Bartolomeo’s pocket and making something in his brain short circuit. 

“Sorry your fans aren’t as affectionate out in public as mine,” Cavendish said snidely, and that was enough to make Bartolomeo remember that the older man was an annoying twerp and definitely not anything close to…perfect. “You do…have fans, right?”

Bartolomeo flipped up his middle finger and then looked around, trying to find something that could put a halt to Cavendish’s preening. His eyes settled on a nearby carnival game, ‘Ring the Bell’ lit up in large letters.

“You think I can do it?”

Cavendish’s eyes swept in an appreciative arc across Bartolomeo’s large frame, but he pressed his lips into a thin line, just to be antagonistic. “Mmm, I doubt it. But go ahead and prove me wrong if you can.”

“Alright, fuckwad,” Bartolomeo snarled, ignoring Cavendish’s answering smirk. “I’m goin’ for it.”

Cavendish stood off to the side and watched a few children try and predictably fail to ring the bell before it was Bartolomeo’s turn. When he glanced over his shoulder Cavendish offered a doubting shrug, watching as he hefted the much heavier mallet the game master offered him. 

The broad muscles of Bartolomeo’s back and shoulders tensed visibly beneath his sweater, the fabric clinging to each defined curve and swell contained beneath it. Cavendish took a deep breath and nonchalantly tucked his hands in his pockets when Barto’s arms bulged in his sleeves, swinging the mallet down and making the bell ring with little effort. 

The game master scowled up at the burly wrestler and Bartolomeo ignored him to favor Cavendish with a vicious, triumphant grin.

After taking a moment to peruse his prize options, Bartolomeo settled for a dark wide-brimmed hat with a puffy feather, carrying it over and wedging it firmly down across Cavendish’s brow. 

Cavendish uttered an undignified squawk, but when he tried to remove it, Bartolomeo shook his head. “Keep it on. It’s cute.”

Bartolomeo smiled widely when Cavendish’s full lips turned down into a petulant frown. “How cute?”

He poked out a finger to deflate Cavendish’s pouty cheeks. “Five and a half outta ten. _Might’ve_ gotten to six if I didn’t know how much of a little shit you are.”

Cavendish’s huff of annoyance drew a low, rumbling laugh from Bartolomeo’s chest and the older man tilted his nose in the air. “That’s absurd. We both know I’m ten out of ten cute, Barto.”

“Do we, Cav?”

Despite their bickering, there was a hint of fondness Bartolomeo couldn’t quite keep from his voice. The nickname, intentional or not, had Cavendish’s heart beating faster in his chest and he looked sharply up at Bartolomeo from beneath the brim of his hat at the sound of it. Bartolomeo’s answering stare was even, and when his lips parted in an almost absent gesture, Cavendish felt a twinge in his stomach that had nothing to do with the carnival food he had eaten. 

Before Cavendish could do something he would probably regret, Bartolomeo turned away and looked down across the midway. 

“You’ve gotta do one now.”

Cavendish tried to quell his disappointment when Bartolomeo’s warm gaze left him. “Okay. I didn’t see anything down that way, let’s try this row.”

They meandered along the midway, able to move a little more freely now that it was growing dark and the fair’s younger attendees were reaching their bedtimes. Even so, they walked shoulder to shoulder, the back of their hands brushing with every other stride. After a long moment of silence, Cavendish felt the weight of Bartolomeo’s gaze and he looked up.

“Why are you staring at me?”

The flush of Bartolomeo’s cheeks was hidden by the low lighting. “Cause you’re an ugly son of a bitch.” 

Cavendish snorted impolitely. “Yeah? That’s rich coming from _you_ , Barto.”

Bartolomeo’s eyes rolled, but despite his sarcastic drawl, they looked sincere when they landed on Cavendish once again. “Alright, no, you’re hot, Cabbage. And you’re right, everyone knows it. I think the hat’s really doin’ it for ya.”

“I’m actually a bit chilly,” Cavendish answered cheekily, tucking his hand into the crook of Bartolomeo’s elbow and leaning into his side. “But you’re quite warm.”

“Gee thanks,” Bartolomeo deadpanned. “Just what every man wants to hear.”

Cavendish’s giggle was muffled by his scarf, but Bartolomeo heard it nonetheless and looked down to meet Cavendish’s soft smile. “Sorry, Rooster. You’re hot too.”

Bartolomeo felt his stomach flip, and the earnest shine of Cavendish’s gaze only served to further confuse him. He knew Cavendish flirted with anything that looked his way, always had, so that had to be what was happening…right? Right. There was no way he actually returned Bartolomeo’s feelings. This was just mindless fun for him, and Barto was a pathetically easy target.

“Hey, Bartolomeo…” The sound of his name jerked him from his thoughts and Cavendish continued, his tone wary. “Can you promise me that you won’t freak out?”

Bartolomeo’s eyes widened instantly, expression alert, and Cavendish increased his grip on the younger man’s arm.

“What is it? Oh my God is one of the Straw Hats here? It’s Chopper-senpai isn’t it? I saw a cotton candy stand earlier and I knew, I just _knew_ —”

Cavendish held up his hands, trying desperately to halt Bartolomeo’s swift descent into lunacy. “No, Barto, stop, it’s not that. But…” He pointed to the prize wall of the nearby rifle range. Hanging at the top was a medium-sized stuffed, well… _boy_ , with his signature straw hat perched above a big white grin.

To his credit, what Bartolomeo did couldn’t exactly be considered ‘freaking out.’ Making a sound like a tin whistle from between his teeth, his hands fisted and rose to his chin, acting as a barrier to whatever unholy screech was trying to escape him. Swaying slightly, Bartolomeo stared up at it with stars in his eyes and Cavendish sighed heavily.

“Do I need to win it for you?”

Bartolomeo’s head was bobbing enthusiastically before Cavendish even finished the question. Rolling his eyes, Cavendish stepped up toward the game master. “What do I need to get to win the…Luffy plush?”

The man grinned. “Oh ho _ho_! Got a kiddo in the family who’s a fan of Straw Hat Luffy?”

Cavendish cast a glance sideways to where Bartolomeo was…well, swooning. It was definitely a swoon. 

“Something like that.”

“Well, it’s one of our top prizes, so you’re going to have to beat our high score to get it.” He said it in an infantilizing way that made it clear he didn’t think that was something Cavendish would be capable of. Well, Cavendish was the undisputed best at whatever he did, so it stood to reason he could beat the measly high score at a carnival rifle range. 

“Alright. I’m ready.”

Looking doubtful, he had barely managed to finish giving Cavendish the safety briefing and collect his tokens before Cavendish had shot down every single target, so quickly it would’ve been hard to prove if not for the fact that they were all flat on their backs. 

“Shit, Cav. How the hell did ya do that so fast?”

Cavendish shrugged, but couldn’t help the warmth that bloomed in his chest at the sound of Bartolomeo’s apparent awe. “I told you I would win it for you, didn’t I?”

The man running the stand gave Cavendish an even dirtier look than the one that Bartolomeo had received at the Ring the Bell game before retrieving the desired prize and getting it promptly snatched away by Bartolomeo’s eager hands. 

“Ten out of ten yet?” Cavendish teased. 

“A thousand outta ten!”

Bartolomeo looked close to tears as he clutched the plush to his chest and Cavendish couldn’t help the fond little laugh that bubbled past his lips.

“Alright, Rooster. I think you owe me one now.”

Although his arms didn’t loosen their grip in the slightest, Bartolomeo’s gaze shifted to Cavendish’s face, eyes wide and cheeks rosy. “Sure, anything. Whaddaya want from me?”

Cavendish took in the bright, unadulterated delight of Bartolomeo’s expression, his heart giving an unsteady lurch. If he knew the answer to that, things would be easier between them. But, as it stood, he didn’t. So instead, he turned his eyes to the sky.

“Ride the Ferris wheel with me.”

This time, it was Bartolomeo who took the initiative, tucking his stuffed companion securely beneath one arm before slinging the other across Cavendish’s shoulders. They made their way back toward the Ferris wheel, settling in at the end of the fortunately short line. 

When a bored teen waved them forward into one of the passenger cars, they both moved toward the same side, and after hesitating for a moment, Bartolomeo chose not to change direction. They squeezed onto a seat not really intended to hold two fully grown men, pressed together at their shoulders, hips and thighs. If Cavendish really had been feeling cold, Barto doubted that he still was. In any case, _he_ was sweating through the soft wool of his sweater, burning up at every point of contact.

Cavendish was quiet, and since he seemed lost in thought, Bartolomeo opted not to bother him. When the older man shifted, his hand fell to rest against Bartolomeo’s thigh, the unconscious press of his fingers warm even through the layer of denim separating skin from skin. Barto tightened the grip of his fingers on the doll in his lap. If squeezing the life out of a little plush version of his personal hero was the only way to keep from lacing his fingers through Cavendish’s or tucking his soft, blond hair behind his ear to kiss his cheek, then he had a feeling Luffy-senpai would forgive him for strangling his likeness.

Their ascent was slow as the cars filled behind them, and it wasn’t until they reached the top for the first time that Cavendish glanced his way. 

“Hey, Bartolomeo.”

“Hmm?”

“Happy birthday.”

Bartolomeo felt his pulse throb faintly in his tightly clenched fingers. “You knew?”

Cavendish shrugged, the flash of his teeth brightening the shadows beneath the brim of the hat he was still wearing. “I Googled you.”

Barto sank one of his teeth into his bottom lip to keep from grinning stupidly. “Yeah? Find anything interesting?”

Although he meant it as a joke, Cavendish’s cheeks bloomed red at the question, and Bartolomeo couldn’t help but wonder what exactly it was that the other man had found, or been looking for.

“Well, your Wikipedia page didn’t say anything about you going to high school with a world-famous model, so I have to say I was actually rather disappointed.”

Bartolomeo hummed noncommittally. “Can’t let ‘em know everything about me, can I?”

“Maybe not, but I’d like to.”

He said it so softly Bartolomeo wasn’t sure he was supposed to have heard it, and even if he was, he didn’t know what to say.

God, why did this have to be so complicated?

Their eyes met, and for a long moment, both of them quietly considered just how easy it would be to erase what little distance there was between them and kiss the other man. Cavendish was the first to look away.

The last car was loaded and the Ferris wheel began its steady rotation, carrying them down over the crowd below and back up across the midway before offering a final brief pause back at the top. 

As the car swayed gently, Cavendish leaned across Bartolomeo, lifting his chin to better see the city beyond the fairgrounds and uttering a faint sigh.

“It really is quite pretty from here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Bartolomeo dropped his gaze, taking in the flush of Cavendish’s cold-chapped cheeks and the gentle lilt of his lips. “It’s beautiful.”

Beautiful, and bright, and awe-inspiring.

But, just like the city below, far beyond his reach.

* * *

The Corrida Colosseum was massive, and it wasn’t until Cavendish was looking up at it from the sidewalk that he realized the extent of Bartolomeo’s fame within his own career. People didn’t come up to him on the street or send gifts or propose marriage the way they did to Cavendish, but if a place like this was sold out for a match that Barto was fighting in…that was almost as impressive. _Almost._

Cavendish had taken the time to bind his trademark curls into a braid and dress casually in an attempt to disguise himself. Not to say he wouldn’t still be happy to receive attention and recognition, but he was here for Bartolomeo, and Suleiman was already giving him enough shit for having to deflect questions from the paparazzi about their public outings. Being recognized in Bartolomeo’s personal box at Corrida would raise more questions about the nature of their relationship than Cavendish was ready to answer.

After stepping inside, he was approached almost immediately by a gangly blond man with a wide smile.

“You’re Cabbage, yeah?”

“It’s Cavendish, but…yes. Gambia, I take it?”

Bartolomeo’s manager nodded, offering a hand and shaking Cavendish’s enthusiastically when he extended it. 

“Barto and Bellamy are already holed up in the back, so he won’t be out to see you, but he had me leave somethin’ for you in the box.”

“That’s fine.”

When Gambia headed for the nearest staircase, Cavendish followed. They were nearing the second landing when he spoke up again.

“So who do I get to see win tonight?”

Gambia laughed and wagged a finger. “Nuh uh. I’m not breaking kayfabe for you, even if there is somethin’ goin’ on with you and Barto. My lips are sealed.”

Cavendish was so thrown by the incomprehensible lingo that he forgot to tell Gambia that there was nothing ‘going on’ between himself and Bartolomeo.

When they reached the next floor, Gambia led him down a short hall and then opened the door at the end, marked with the familiar symbol that adorned the back of Bartolomeo’s coat. 

“Go ahead and make yourself comfy. I’ll be down in the thick of things, but if you need anything before the match is over, there are Corrida people around that can help you.” He let Cavendish poke around a bit before clearing his throat and extending a quizzical thumbs up. “You good?”

“Yes. Thank you, Gambia.”

Gambia grinned and nodded, ducking out of the door to avoid a collision between his hair and the doorframe. “No problem. See you after the match.”

As the door closed, Cavendish took one of the seats against the balcony railing, peering down onto the arena from above. It was certainly a good vantage point, and away from the crowd, which was a relief. Relaxing back in the chair, Cavendish reached out toward the piece of paper on the table next to him, tucked beneath a single red rose. 

_‘Glad you could come, Cabbage. Hope we put on a good show for you. Had Gambia bring up a snack, just DON’T EAT THE STEM idiot.’_

Cavendish rolled his eyes, bringing the rose up to his nose before setting it back and picking up the takeout box from Caramel. 

Munching contentedly on the sweet pastry, Cavendish pulled out his phone. Unlocking it, he was greeted by the picture of him and Bartolomeo that had been taken at the fair a few weeks before and he spent a moment looking at it. 

It was a great picture of himself, not to say the alternative existed, and that’s how he justified its position of honor on his home screen, no matter how often his gaze would slide to Bartolomeo and ponder the uncharacteristically tender expression he was directing toward him. 

Opening up his message thread with Bartolomeo, he sent him a quick text. 

_‘Where do I need to be looking to see you when you come in?’_

It was getting close enough to the match start time without a response for Cavendish to assume Bartolomeo wasn’t going to answer when his phone chimed. 

The response was a very bad quality picture, zoomed in too far to make any real sense of it, with a circle drawn over the vague blob in the middle. 

_‘straight ahead’_

_‘hi cabbage’_

Even leaning forward and squinting as hard as was physically possible, Cavendish couldn’t make out anything in the shadows on the far side of the arena that might be Bartolomeo, but he waved nevertheless. Then, just for good measure, he plucked one of the petals off the rose and stuck it between his teeth before taking a picture and sending it in reply.

_‘Hi, Rooster. Thank you for the snack.’_

Backstage, Gambia confiscated Bartolomeo’s phone before he could tell Cavendish he was a disgusting moron, and Cavendish set his own aside as the lights in the colosseum dimmed. 

A hush fell over the crowd below and Cavendish scooted to the edge of his seat when a drumroll started to play. A soft murmur began to rise from the stands, and when it rose to a clamor, Cavendish spotted a hulking figure making its way down through the crowd toward the ring. 

When he reached the ropes, a row of lights flicked on, illuminating a massive man with darkly tanned skin, shaggy blond hair and a prominent scar along the side of his face. Springing easily up over the ropes, he stalked across the length of the ring, sending a wide grin out toward the crowd and emitting a laugh that sounded more like a cackle. 

“Here he is, folks!” The announcer crowed. “The bane of villains far and wide…springing from obscurity to the heights of his craft… _Bellamy the Hyena!_ ”

Cavendish cocked a dubious brow as the crowd erupted in cheers. He afforded the man a polite, cursory clap, but would do no more.

When Bellamy hopped up on the edge of the ropes closest to Cavendish and went still, the crowd lapsed back into silence, palpable tension settling over the room.

The silence stretched onward, reaching the point of discomfort, and Cavendish could sense the crowd beginning to grow restless with nervous excitement. Suddenly there was the hiss of rising smoke and a single spotlight blazed to life, casting its green glow on the opposite corner of the ring where a figure was…

Cavendish let out a disbelieving laugh, muffled by the press of his knuckles against his lips. 

He remembered Bartolomeo saying that he had publicly owned up to the idiotic nature of his arrest and that Gambia had found a way to incorporate it into his stage persona, but this…was not what Cavendish had been expecting.

Bartolomeo was facing the ropes with his checkered pants dropped to his ankles, the speakers around the arena providing a sound effect to complete the image that he was, in fact, pissing off the edge of the ring.

The crowd began to boo and hiss, loud enough that Cavendish understood they loved Bartolomeo as much as Bellamy, despite the roles they had to play.

At the sound, Bartolomeo turned to look over his shoulder, his expressive face adopting a facsimile of fear and surprise. Cavendish rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. 

Upon catching sight of the audience, Barto bent down, grabbing for his belt. It was a good thing that his coat had been redesigned for this particular gag. The whisps of smoke curling around his frame did little to conceal him from the section of the audience at his back, and if the coat was so much as a few inches shorter, they would be getting quite an eyeful when he bent over. While he knew Bartolomeo was absolutely shameless, he did have a particular job to do, and Cavendish had a feeling that, personally, he would have trouble booing at the sight of Bartolomeo’s ass.

Once his pants were seated back on his hips, Bartolomeo turned, swaggering toward the center of the ring. 

“Irreverent and incorrigible, it’s the man determined to bring our hero down… _Barto the Cannibal!_ ”

His arms rose, hands against his shoulders and fingers crossed, and the crowd started another wave of boos. Feeling rebellious, Cavendish stuck two of his fingers between his lips and whistled sharply to voice his approval. Bartolomeo jerked his head almost imperceptibly toward the sound and when Bellamy hopped down to join him in the ring, Barto tilted his face up toward Cavendish and winked.

The match that followed lost Cavendish a bit, if he was being honest. There was a narrative centered around…piracy and some sort of important treasure, and Cavendish remembered Bartolomeo mentioning that the match he would be watching was only one of many in a series of fights between him and this particular opponent. 

Still, it was entertaining. Despite his size, Bellamy was quick, but Bartolomeo appeared to be an expert at avoiding his enemies’ attacks in increasingly ridiculous ways, earning the ire of the crowd, who really just wanted to see some contact. 

Finally, Bellamy got the drop on Barto, tackling the smaller man to the ground. Cavendish could hear a dull thud as Bartolomeo’s shoulder hit the ring, and he felt a nervous flutter in his stomach when Bartolomeo visibly grimaced. Judging by the fleeting look that passed between the two wrestlers and the sudden lightening of Bellamy’s grip, that hadn’t been scripted, and Cavendish was already preparing what he would say when he chewed Barto out for not being careful enough. 

Gaining the upper hand, Bartolomeo staggered back up to his feet. Putting some distance between himself and Bellamy, he shrugged his coat effortlessly off of his shoulders and made a show of tossing it out toward the ring girl standing just beyond the ropes. The savage grin that Barto directed toward the crowd seemed pointed, and his eyes traveled upward until he was making eye contact with Cavendish. 

Cavendish returned it, eyes dark and breathing suddenly labored. He had seen Bartolomeo bare-chested briefly during the sweater fiasco in the car and in a few—okay, _many_ —pictures online, but that had not adequately prepared him for the sight below. 

Bartolomeo’s frame was _solid_. Not tapered or lean like the muscle-bound men in Cavendish’s profession. His broad shoulders cut into a wide chest and thick waist, all stacked with defined musculature that had Cavendish’s fingers twitching atop his thighs. By God, he just wanted to _touch_ him.

Cavendish still hadn’t come to terms with the feelings he had been developing for his friend, but he wouldn’t hesitate for an instant to admit that he would be more than happy to be manhandled by a sweaty and panting Bartolomeo in a setting far less professional than a wrestling ring. If he wasn’t so dead-set against mixing feelings with casual sex, he would’ve asked Barto a long time ago if he was comfortable with having cavalier and _frequent_ hook-ups.

A cry of frustration from the stands regained Cavendish’s attention and he idly uncrossed his legs before peering down to see what was happening. 

Bartolomeo had Bellamy in a headlock, using the ropes for leverage as the referee stood in the far corner, back to the wrestlers as he whistled a tune with feigned innocence. The crowd jeered at the blatantly illegal move, then cheered when Bellamy managed to kick back against one of Barto’s knees and dislodge himself. 

When they separated, eyeing each other warily from a few feet away, both men were breathing hard and Bellamy spat a wad of blood from his mouth that earned a gasp from the audience and a played-up outcry from the announcer. 

The grin that bared Bartolomeo’s sharp teeth didn’t falter, his eyes wide and wild as he circled Bellamy. A countdown started above the ring, flashing steadily as the match reached its final climactic sixty seconds. 

Cavendish leaned forward, resting his elbows on the balcony railing and watching the labored rise and fall of Bartolomeo’s chest, unashamedly enraptured.

The two wrestlers grappled in what appeared to be a desperate free-for-all of jabs and alternating holds, the announcer bellowing his commentary with infectious zeal, but it wasn’t until the timer reached ten seconds that Bartolomeo bent and, roaring in exertion, slammed Bellamy down onto the ring. He fell heavily, and with a cocky, manic smile Bartolomeo pressed the toe of his boot into Bellamy’s chest as he struggled to rise. 

When the referee bent on one knee and brought his hand to the mat the crowd began to count, and when they reached a long, despairing, drawn out “three”, Bellamy stilled, defeated.

Although it was a cry of dismay that rang through the arena, it was rowdy and lively, and this time Cavendish joined in, beaming broadly. 

Alternating screams of “Screw you, Barto!” and “Hell yeah!” separated from the general din. When Bartolomeo lifted his face with a grin to bask in the adoration and abuse alike, Cavendish felt positively ready to burst with pride.

Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the way Bartolomeo’s gaze unfailingly swung around to make sure Cavendish was, if only for a second, the sole recipient of that wide smile, but any doubt and misgivings Cavendish had fell away. 

It was quite possibly stupid and obviously rather senseless, but he had fallen for Bartolomeo. Fallen _hard_.

He cupped his hands around his mouth to add his own cry to the hubbub, but whatever was going to leave his lips in a sudden, thoughtless rush was interrupted by the sound of the door behind him.

“Come on, follow me. Quick, if you can.”

Cavendish turned to see Gambia in the doorway, waving him forward. 

“He’s got a fair amount of struttin’ to do yet so if we head down now we can beat the crowd.”

Still a bit dazed, Cavendish just grinned. “He did it!”

Gambia’s lips twitched in an amused smile and he nodded. “I know he did, kid. Let’s get out of here so you can tell him how excited you are in person.”

Flushing, Cavendish nodded and gathered his things. 

After dropping Cavendish off in Bartolomeo’s private room, Gambia ducked out again, and it was a few minutes later that the door swung back open.

Cavendish looked up, meeting Bartolomeo’s eyes. Before he could do so much as step into the room, Cavendish was out of his seat and flinging his arms around the taller man’s neck.

“You were incredible!”

Bartolomeo staggered under the unexpected onslaught, a chuckle rumbling from his chest as he curled his arms around Cavendish’s back to return the embrace. 

“Thanks, Cabbage. Couldn’t let down my biggest fan, could I?” His tone was warm, teasing, and as much as Cavendish wanted to just press his face to the curve of Bartolomeo’s neck and tighten his grip, he couldn’t help but respond in kind.

“Oh, no, don’t get me wrong, Barto.” Cavendish pulled away, moving to sit beside Bartolomeo when the younger man settled onto the couch across the room. “I would’ve absolutely loved to watch you get your ass kicked too.”

Bartolomeo laughed, closing his eyes and leaning back against the cushions behind him. When his shoulder hit the back of the couch, he winced, and Cavendish remembered that he was supposed to be giving Bartolomeo a lecture. Instead, he brought his fingers gently to the reddened skin.

“Does it hurt?”

“A little,” Bartolomeo admitted. “My footing was off when Bellamy threw me so I went down wrong. Just sore more than anything, it’ll bruise in a day or so.”

“Would it help if I massaged it for you?”

Bartolomeo cracked one eye open, the ridge of his brow cocked. When he saw nothing but sincerity in Cavendish’s answering stare, he shrugged. 

“Probably wouldn’t hurt.”

“Sit sideways.”

Bartolomeo did as he was asked, turning his back to Cavendish as the smaller man propped himself primly on his heels and brought his hands to Bartolomeo’s shoulders. 

The first touch of his fingers against Bartolomeo’s damp skin sent a dark flush across Cavendish’s cheeks, spreading downward as he pressed forward. The pliable give of his tense muscles was intoxicating. Cavendish couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel beneath his nails, how far those broad shoulders could force his thighs apart. When Cavendish’s thumb dug firmly against Bartolomeo’s injured shoulder, the younger man let out an unabashed moan and Cavendish swallowed thickly, trying to think about anything and everything except the steadily growing pressure within the confines of his already tight jeans.

“Feels real good, Cav.”

Ah. Well. So much for that. 

It wasn’t the best time for an admission of affection, perhaps, turned on and still high off adrenaline as he was, but Cavendish knew that if he waited he would lose his nerve. So, he cleared his throat and steeled his resolve.

“Bartolomeo?”

“Hmm?” His head lolled back to rest against Cavendish’s shoulder, eyes hazy and half-lidded. 

God, what a couple of idiots they were. The tension in the room was so thick they could take a bite out of it, and Cavendish was tired of pretending they didn’t feel it.

“I want—”

He was interrupted when the door opened, and Cavendish tensed as Bartolomeo’s opponent stepped into the room.

Bartolomeo remained where he was, but lifted his head to see who had joined them. 

“Hey.” He waved a hand vaguely between the two men. “Bellamy, Cabbage. Cabbage, Bellamy.”

Bellamy raised an eyebrow, gaze sweeping across the scene in front of him before he spoke. “Am I interrupting something?”

Cavendish opened his mouth to respond with a rather strong affirmative, but Bartolomeo beat him to it.

“Nah.” Bartolomeo yawned and then looked back to meet Cavendish’s frustrated expression. “Well, were you gonna say somethin’, Cabbage?”

“Nothing important,” he said tersely, his thumb digging deep into Bartolomeo’s aching muscles with renewed vigor. He was smugly satisfied when Bartolomeo arched appreciatively into the touch, but didn’t miss the way Bellamy’s eyes followed the movement. 

“Then no.” 

“Shoulder’s okay?” Bellamy had his arms crossed over his wide chest and when he looked at Cavendish through narrowed eyes, Cavendish glared back.

“Sore, but nothing’s broken. Nothin’ a helping hand can’t fix.”

Bartolomeo offered Cavendish a lazy wink and the older man breathed out harshly through flared nostrils. Was Barto really as dense as he seemed, or did he just get off on teasing him when he was already uncomfortably aroused?

Bellamy snorted and leaned back against the doorframe. “I’ll remember that the next time you pull some shit and leave bruises. I expect you’d be willing to do the honors?”

Cavendish’s head snapped sharply toward Bellamy. He could recognize flirting when he heard it; he was a master at it after all. And _that_ was definitely flirting.

“Sure. Least I could do since I’m such a pain in your ass.” Bartolomeo sent a cheeky grin in Bellamy’s direction and Cavendish’s hands abruptly dropped from Bartolomeo’s shoulders. Suddenly, he felt foolish. 

Here he was, ready to admit that he had feelings for Bartolomeo, _real_ feelings, and all the while, Bartolomeo was openly flirting with another man. Because sure, there was no use hiding the fact that he was attracted to Cavendish, but that’s all it was. That’s all it ever was. People wanted to be with him for the fame and to feel wanted by someone as beautiful as he was. No feelings needed. Usually, he was more than happy to oblige. 

He wasn’t sure why he’d thought Bartolomeo would be any different. Barto actually _knew_ him, unlike most of his past partners, so of course he wasn’t looking for a relationship. Cavendish’s public persona was fun and flirty and enticing, but Bartolomeo had seen him unguarded, anxious and biting, and _lost_ and where was the appeal in someone so obviously, overwhelmingly flawed?

Across the room, Bellamy answered Bartolomeo’s quip with a low laugh and Cavendish dug his trembling fingers so tightly against his knees that they began to ache. 

“I came to ask if you wanted to go out for a drink tonight.” After a brief moment of hesitation, Bellamy’s eyes slid over to Cavendish. “You too if you want…Cabbage.”

The impassive expression on his face made it clear that he was only offering out of courtesy and Cavendish bristled.

“You’re busy tonight ain’tcha?” Bartolomeo asked, glancing back at Cavendish and frowning slightly at the visible tension of his posture. Lost in his swiftly spiraling introspection, Cavendish didn’t realize the question was being directed at him.

“Oi.” Bartolomeo flicked his fingers lightly against Cavendish’s arm. “Talkin’ to you, idiot.”

“Hm?”

“Bellamy asked if you wanted to come out with us,” he reiterated. “But I thought you had a date or somethin’ tonight.”

Cavendish paused to consider it. Did he? It didn’t seem completely out of the realm of possibility that he had had the foresight to schedule something to let off some steam after watching Bartolomeo wrestle, but…nothing came to mind. Unless…this was just Bartolomeo’s way of saying that he would prefer Cavendish not come out with them. If, of course, he would really rather be out with Bellamy. Just the two of them. Alone.

Cavendish cleared his throat and nodded weakly. “Yeah, I have…something. Go ahead and go without me.”

Bartolomeo made a vague gesture at Bellamy, who nodded in response. “Cool. I’m heading home to get cleaned up. Catch a ride to my place and we’ll go from there?”

“Yeah. Lookin’ forward to it.” 

Cavendish felt his stomach drop. 

After two years as kids stuck in a stupid rivalry, twelve years apart, and two months growing back together, all it took to set things back again was a single moment of shitty timing.

What fucking luck.

* * *

Cavendish kept his distance in the week that followed. Whenever Bartolomeo tried to get ahold of him, he evaded contact, claiming that he was too busy to find the time to hang out. After a few more half-hearted attempts, Bartolomeo seemed to get the message, and it had been two days since Cavendish had received so much as a text from the other man. It was the longest they’d gone without speaking since they’d made the choice to rekindle their friendship.

And it was upsetting, to say the least.

Cavendish, fool that he was, imagined Bartolomeo easily replacing him with someone else. Someone older, stronger; someone with common interests who didn’t mock his hair and his clothes and the way his voice sometimes whistled out involuntarily from between his sharpened canines. 

It was his own fault and Cavendish knew it. He had been leading Bartolomeo on, enjoying his attention and the way that he would sometimes look at him like he hung the moon when he didn’t think he was watching. It was fun, flattering, and while Cavendish flirted back, he also hadn’t been shy telling Bartolomeo that he was still seeking attention elsewhere. 

Because really, dating apps were almost tailormade for men like Cavendish. What better way to boost your ego than to see how many strangers in your area thought that you were hot enough to warrant a fling? And for Cavendish, there were always _many_. He had had enough casual hook-ups in the past two months to warrant counting on two hands, but had still hoped Bartolomeo would drop everything for him when he was ready to seek out a relationship. Not that Cavendish had even admitted anything, so it wasn’t as if Bartolomeo had rejected him. Still, it hurt.

Hurt thinking about him going over to another man’s home when they had never crossed that boundary. Hurt thinking about how they probably spent their time together, doing all of the things that Cavendish wished Bartolomeo would do to him. Or vice versa; he wasn’t picky. 

And if he tried to compensate for his unexpected loneliness in the only way he knew how, well, that was his prerogative. So what if he was only swiping right on tall and excessively muscular men? They didn’t question him when he made sure he was being fucked in positions where he couldn’t see their faces, and they would never know that he had to bite his lip until it bled just to keep from crying out someone else’s name, so really, he was in the clear. Right? 

Wrong. But what the hell else was he supposed to do?

His therapist suggested open and honest communication, but that was easy to say from the other side of the couch, and much harder to actually manage. He’d tried that method with his parents, more than once, but all he’d ever gotten for his honesty were tears and raised voices and hurt feelings piled on top of an already strained relationship. He had no reason to believe that Bartolomeo would be any more understanding just because he wanted him to be.

Sighing heavily from his position sprawled across his sofa, Cavendish reached for the TV remote and flipped through a few channels in an attempt to provide some meager distraction. Unlucky for him, the fourth channel that appeared brought with it an image of none other than Barto the Cannibal, blood running through the familiar swoop of his eyeliner as his teeth bared in a snarl.

Cavendish vaguely recalled Bartolomeo texting him earlier in the week to ask if he wanted to come to another match. He grabbed his phone from the coffee table.

_‘hey cav hope u r ok. havent heard from u today. fighting an asshole named Gladius this weekend if u wanna come. if not u can watch it on tv’_

Well, sure enough.

A strange mixture of guilt, self-pity, and arousal washed over Cavendish as he turned his gaze back to the television and watched Bartolomeo wrench himself out of Gladius’ grasp. He wondered who Barto had looked for in the crowd without him there. Probably someone scarred and muscular and top-heavy enough to pin Bartolomeo to a wall and fuck him breathless. 

Bartolomeo managed to grapple Gladius down onto his back, muscular thighs on either side of his lanky opponent’s hips as he struggled against the hold. The sight made Cavendish dizzy with lust.

Too sad and horny to be ashamed, Cavendish let his hand fall to the waist of his pants, pushing until they were bunched around his knees and he could work his cock free from his underwear. It was already half-hard in his fist when the TV afforded him a close-up of Bartolomeo’s focused expression and it twitched eagerly in his grasp.

Fumbling around in the coffee table for a bottle of lube, Cavendish coated his palm and then returned it to his erection, a soft gasp falling from his lips at the first slick slide of his hand. 

Some part of his hazy mind reasoned that he should just pick up the phone and call Bartolomeo. The match wasn’t live, so he was probably at home, and if he was out, Cavendish couldn’t say he would mind interrupting whatever might be happening between Bartolomeo and that stupid, flirty meathead. But, the real Bartolomeo was unpredictable, and Cavendish knew at least that the fantasy taking form behind his eyelids would give him what he wanted without the need for confronting his feelings.

Cavendish imagined Bartolomeo above him, his powerful frame invading his space and demanding its well-deserved attention. He imagined the way his lips would taste, and the prick of his teeth against Cavendish’s searching tongue. 

His heavy panting drowned out the commentary from the TV as his hand moved in a firm, steady rhythm. The other pushed down his underwear and reached for the lube again, sloppily coating the middle three fingers before one slipped lower, first circling and then pressing past the taut rim of his asshole. 

Heavy-lidded eyes opened to look back at the large screen. He couldn’t tell who was winning or losing, just that the fight had gone long already. Both men looked to be nearing a point of exhaustion.

Cavendish could see beads of sweat dripping from Bartolomeo’s messy hairline and rolling along the strong bridge of his nose to settle against his lips. He tasted salt and metal heavy on his tongue, taking the glittering golden septum ring into his mouth along with the soft curve of Bartolomeo’s upper lip. 

His lips parted as he lost himself in the imaginary kiss, fingers moving deeper, curling distractedly while he increased the pace of his hand on his cock. 

He was already embarrassingly close just thinking about what Bartolomeo could do to him. The pressure building low in his gut was insistent, mindless, coiling tighter with every desperate jerk of his hands. 

All it took was a shot of Bartolomeo wrestling Gladius into a sleeper hold. With the phantom weight of a heavy hand against his neck, Cavendish spasmed, pumping his closed fist full of cum as he whimpered Bartolomeo’s name.

Sweaty, sticky, coming back down from the high of his orgasm, an unsettling clarity returned to Cavendish’s mind, bringing with it the oppressive weight of shame and guilt.

“Fuck.”

Wiping the hand he’d been fingering himself with against the fabric of his underwear, he reached for his phone and did what he should have done a week ago.

_‘Hey, Barto. I’m sorry. I want to see you. Call me when you can.’_

And then, with no additional hesitation.

_‘I miss you.’_

* * *

As glad as Bartolomeo was that Cavendish had broken his odd silence, the other man was giving him serious whiplash. 

Since reuniting, they’d developed a level of friendship they had never managed to achieve as teenagers, and Bartolomeo had allowed himself to enjoy the casual comfort of it, even if Cavendish made his mind and body tailspin into far less _friendly_ territory without much effort.

They talked every day, saw each other nearly every other, and it was always, almost unbelievably, easy.

But then Cavendish had taken him out as a surprise for his birthday and there were a few times at the fair that Bartolomeo had begun to seriously wonder if Cavendish was keeping him around for something more than just friendship. Ultimately, nothing changed between them. In the weeks that followed, they relaxed back into their typical schedule without having to fight the tension that had started to emerge at inopportune moments. 

He’d been a little surprised when Cavendish actually expressed interest in coming to watch one of his matches, and he still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what had happened between them after his victory. The hug was nice, if unexpected, but then that fucking _massage_? The sensation of Cavendish’s hands against his bare skin had Bartolomeo so turned on so fast he couldn’t even see straight, and thank God for Bellamy or he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from pinning Cavendish down onto the couch and demanding some goddamn clarification.

Apparently, the astronomical level of sexual tension between them in that room still hadn’t been enough to warrant a conversation about where the hell their friendship was headed. Cavendish had started acting weird the moment Bellamy appeared, had turned down an invitation to hang out with the two of them to go on a date and probably hook up with some lucky fan or stranger, and then all but ran out of Corrida without an explanation.

When Bartolomeo arrived at Bellamy’s apartment, still confused and frustrated about the way Cavendish was acting, they opted not to go out at all. They weren’t as popular as Cavendish by any stretch of the imagination, but chancing a night out at a bar following a highly publicized match was toeing a line neither man wanted to deal with. Instead, they spent the evening on Bellamy’s couch with the beers from his fridge and a compilation video of Luffy’s greatest fights. If only for their mutual admiration of the young boxer, Bellamy was the closest thing Bartolomeo had to a friend among his usual opponents, and in a lot of ways, it was easier to hang out with him than with Cavendish.

After approximately twenty minutes of sitting in silence and listening to Bartolomeo babble enthusiastically about Luffy-senpai and his friends, Bellamy had asked him two questions which immediately popped the safe bubble of Straw Hat worship Bartolomeo had cocooned himself in.

First, was the man he had introduced to him as ‘Cabbage’ that famous model Bellamy saw on at least one magazine cover every time he went to check out at the grocery store, and second, how close had Bellamy actually come to walking in on the two of them fucking on the couch instead of whatever weird foreplay he had been forced to witness?

The first answer was an easy—and proud—yes, and the second a stammering denial that any such thing was or would have been happening. 

It only took two more beers before Bartolomeo was curled up and crying about how goddamned _pretty_ Cavendish was. Bellamy didn’t even try not to look smug. 

The only advice the older man had to offer was “stop crying about it and fuck him then,” as if someone like Bartolomeo could just _do that_ when Cavendish was gorgeous and had the entire world at his beck and call. 

The next morning Bartolomeo texted Cavendish to let him know he was still at Bellamy’s place across town and asked him if he wanted to meet up for breakfast somewhere within walking distance. Cavendish hadn’t responded, and thus began a week of the older man pointedly avoiding and ignoring Bartolomeo, to Barto’s increasing confusion and desperation.

Within seconds of Cavendish finally reaching out again, Bartolomeo had called him, and the older man hadn’t sounded much like himself. His usual cocky teasing had been replaced with something akin to introspection, and from the way his breathing hitched it almost sounded as if he’d been recently crying.

By that point, it seemed safe to say that there was no real sense of normalcy for Bartolomeo and Cavendish. They fell back once again into a familiar pattern, meeting up four or five days out of the week to eat together and talk, or walk around town and talk, or go to a fucking museum Cavendish was interested in and _talk_. Talking was fine, but the more Bartolomeo sat across from Cavendish and watched his lips move, the more he wanted to just grab his stupidly handsome face and kiss him senseless. 

Was acting on his physical attraction worth becoming one of Cavendish’s conquests? Was stopping antagonizing him for long enough to stammer out how much he had grown to care about the idiotic, arrogant bastard worth potentially ruining their tenuous friendship? Bartolomeo didn’t know, so he continued to pine silently instead. He might be brash and reckless in the ring, but when it came to Cavendish, he was absolute chickenshit.

After a long and particularly exhausting rehearsal for his final fight with Gladius, Bartolomeo went home to pass out for a solid twenty minutes before he needed to clean up and get ready for Luffy-senpai’s upcoming televised match.

He had only been comfortably sprawled and snoring for five minutes when his phone rang, jerking him back awake.

A brightly grinning Cavendish met his bleary gaze and he switched to speakerphone before flopping his head back onto the mattress.

“Bartolomeo, are you there?”

“Mmhm.”

Cavendish paused for a moment. “Where are you? It sounds like you’re underwater, but we both know you can’t swim for shit.”

“You woke me up,” Bartolomeo mumbled, tilting his head sideways to reduce the muffling effect of his custom-made, straw hat adorned bedsheets. 

“Oh. Sorry. Do you want me to hang up?”

Bartolomeo sighed heavily. “What’s the point? I’m awake now, Cabbage, just say whatcha wanna say.”

“I wanted to know if you had eaten already. I just finished a shoot over in the general vicinity of Pasta Lake and I’m _starving_.”

“Nope,” Bartolomeo answered promptly. “We ain’t hangin’ out unless ya want to come over here. Luffy-senpai’s got a match on in forty-five minutes.”

Cavendish was quiet for a long moment. “You want me to come over?”

“Don’t really care. Do what you want. I’m just sayin’ I’m not leaving my house, so if ya really wanna see me that badly, that’s your option. You remember where I live, yeah?

“Yeah. Alright. I’ll be over in half an hour?”

“Fine. Go ahead and get us a reservation for dinner though. Match should be over by four and I don’t have enough food here for both of us.”

Bartolomeo could hear the smile in Cavendish’s voice when he responded. “Okay, but I’m at least stealing some snacks from you.”

“Whatever. See ya soon. Just come in when you get here.”

After allowing himself a little bit longer to relax, Bartolomeo shuffled out to unlock the front door. He only had fifteen minutes before Cavendish said he would arrive, enough time to either try and clean up his living space or take a shower, but definitely not both. The house was messy, but he’d certainly seen it worse, so he opted for the latter lest Cavendish and his delicate sensibilities be offended by the inherent stink of physical exertion.

He had just stepped under the water when he heard the sound of the front door and the hesitant tap of high heels on laminate.

“Barto? Where are you?”

“In the shower,” he answered, sticking his head out from behind the shower curtain to squint at the clock across the hall in the bedroom. “I thought you said half an hour.”

“I did.” The sound of Cavendish’s footfalls grew closer and Bartolomeo pulled the curtain firmly back into place. “I was planning on going home to change, but decided I didn’t want to bother.” The clacking stopped, and when he continued, his voice came from the hallway just beyond the bathroom. “Can I come in?”

Bartolomeo paused, hands buried in his hair and sudsy with lather. “Sure.”

Cavendish made a soft sound that suggested he had lifted himself onto the counter. “What food am I allowed to steal from you?”

“Anything but the cookies.” They were the extra sugary kind with thick frosting and sprinkles that existed in some variety at every store that sold food. So good.

“The cookies you like are disgusting, so, no worries.”

A rhythmic tapping sound cut through the drone of the falling water and Bartolomeo was able to easily picture Cavendish swinging his feet back and forth, heels knocking against the wooden cabinet with each alternating arc. He had also spent enough time around Cavendish and his high fashion to be immediately able to tell that the other man was wearing some form of stilettos and not the thick type of heel that Bartolomeo sported on his own boots. The implication was thrilling.

When Cavendish went quiet, Bartolomeo carefully scooted back against the wall of the shower and pushed aside the curtain with one finger. If Cavendish had come straight from a shoot that meant he was wearing something, well, less than modest. The older man’s success in his profession was built entirely on his undeniable sex appeal and for targets very much like Bartolomeo, the things they dressed him up in did the trick.

Cavendish was concentrated on something on his cell phone when Bartolomeo peeked out at him, missing the way his eyes widened when he saw the outfit. 

Oh. 

_Christ._

Cavendish was wearing a skirt. A _short_ skirt, with high-heeled boots that rose all the way to his knees. The combination made his thighs look positively _illegal_.

“Fuck.”

Bartolomeo scrambled back behind the safety of the curtain a split second before Cavendish lifted his head. 

“Did you say something?”

Cranking the water as cold as it would get, Bartolomeo rubbed his hands across his face in an attempt to clear the image seared onto the back of his eyelids. “Nope.”

Cavendish let out a dubious hum, but didn’t press. 

Viciously scrubbing himself down and rinsing off beneath the freezing water, Bartolomeo tried to prepare himself for the reality of having to face Cavendish in _that_ for the entire evening. 

The tapping of Cavendish’s feet stopped when the water turned off and Bartolomeo stuck an arm out from behind the curtain.

“Towel.”

It appeared in his hand promptly and he shook the excess water from his hair before tying the towel around his waist and stepping out to stand beside Cavendish in front of the mirror.

Cavendish didn’t even pretend not to stare, his big blue eyes wandering from the drops of water rolling across Bartolomeo’s tattoo to the angled cut of muscle that disappeared beneath the towel. His teeth bit hard enough into his bottom lip that when they finally released it there was a visibly reddened section that broke the smooth line of his lipstick.

“I’m not a piece of meat,” Bartolomeo sneered, though he couldn’t help but feel satisfied knowing he was giving Cavendish as much trouble as that damn skirt had caused. “Shoo unless ya really wanna get an eyeful.”

Cavendish scrambled off of the counter, too busy trying to hide his deepening blush to offer a retort. He was barely out of the doorway when Bartolomeo dropped his towel and Barto thought he heard Cavendish’s footsteps falter for a moment before fading out in the direction of the kitchen.

Just so he wouldn’t be the only one having to maintain focus, Bartolomeo threw on a pair of loose sweatpants and nothing else. He would have to change for dinner, but for the time being, it would be a fun exercise to watch Cavendish try not to stare. 

The older man was curled up on the couch with a bowl of grapes when Bartolomeo entered the room and it took a few seconds longer than necessary for his gaze to reach Barto’s face. 

“It took me way too long to find something reasonably healthy to eat,” Cavendish complained. “I looked through your entire kitchen and you don’t have a single vegetable.”

Bartolomeo sat down on the other end and shoved his cold feet beneath Cavendish’s calves, bare now that he’d abandoned his boots by the front door. “Why would I?”

“To stay healthy? How have you survived for twenty-eight years without me forcing you to go out for balanced meals?”

“Just fine,” Bartolomeo retorted, turning on the TV and switching to the channel where Luffy’s fight would be airing. “Cup of noodles has those little uh…veggie bits in ‘em.”

Cavendish looked absolutely horrified. “Barto! No! Those are _not_ vegetables! I’m at least buying you some frozen peas when I go shopping next.”

Bartolomeo didn’t look away from the screen. “‘Kay. That’ll be useful when I’m sore.”

One of Cavendish’s feet kicked out and struck Bartolomeo firmly in the stomach, earning a scowl. “You’re going to _eat_ them, idiot. I’ll pry your mouth open and force them down your throat if I have to.”

“Kinky.”

The sound Cavendish made was best characterized as a squawk, and Bartolomeo smirked when he saw the other man’s face go red in his periphery.

“Now shut up, Cabbage. The match is startin’.”

Cavendish fell into an embarrassed, fuming silence, sullenly eating his grapes while he looked toward the TV with a pout.

Bartolomeo let out a dreamy sigh when Luffy appeared on the screen, his boyish face lit up with a grin. Cavendish rolled his eyes.

“What if he’s actually a total jerk in person?”

That was hardly worthy of a response, but Bartolomeo was still quick to hop to Luffy’s defense. “He isn’t. They’re all great, and Luffy-senpai is the best of ‘em.”

“How would you even know?”

Bartolomeo shot Cavendish a short, sharp glare as the picture flipped to Luffy’s opponent. “Because I’ve met them, dumbass. Helped ‘em out with somethin’ five years ago, by total accident.”

Cavendish was dumbfounded. “And you’re still alive? You didn’t just…dissolve seeing them all together?”

A raised middle finger was his only response until the camera panned away from Luffy again.

“Robin-senpai even sent me a personal invitation to the big party she and Franky-senpai had after they got married.” He was getting a little teary remembering it. “It was beautiful.”

“And I suppose you’re their son’s godfather now too?” Cavendish asked sarcastically. 

Bartolomeo looked at him like he’d grown three heads. “No. Usopp-senpai is. Jesus, Cabbage, get your head outta your ass.”

Cavendish chucked a grape at him and frowned when he was able to catch it easily between his teeth.

“If ya don’t believe me, I have pictures with all of ‘em and all of their signatures in my bedroom.”

“Of course you do.”

Bartolomeo shrugged unapologetically and ignored Cavendish in favor of watching the match begin. Although bloated with commercials, instant replays, and commentary, the fight was a quick one, Luffy knocking his opponent out with just a single punch during the second round. Barto swooned when his fist made contact.

Cavendish wandered off when they announced the victor, cleaning up his dishes before sneaking toward Bartolomeo’s bedroom in the vain hope that he had exaggerated what amounted to a Straw Hats shrine along one of the walls.

Not particularly caring that he was poking around, Bartolomeo watched the post-match interviews with rapt attention, marveling at how humble and energetic Luffy-senpai was at any and every given moment.

By the time the channel changed to another event, Cavendish still hadn’t returned to the couch, so Bartolomeo stretched out along the length of it and closed his eyes contentedly, daydreaming about reuniting with the entirety of the Straw Hat crew someday. It was getting more difficult for them to all get together now that they were starting families and Luffy was being carted all over the world for increasingly publicized matches, but they were all still supportive. And had probably forgotten that Bartolomeo had, at one point, been added to a group chat that allowed him to keep fairly accurate track of their reunions. 

“Barto, you’re psychotic.”

Bartolomeo opened his eyes to find Cavendish standing by the foot of the couch. For a moment, he made a little space in his Luffy-stuffed brain to appreciate the older man’s outfit again. He hadn’t even really noticed the sweater, so he took the extra time to admire the way it slouched across Cavendish’s shoulders to reveal the top half of his collarbones. 

“Tell me you ain’t got as many pictures of yourself in your house as I do pictures of the Straw Hats and I’ll accept it.”

Cavendish’s blush was telling but he still tried to stammer a retort. “I’m a _model_ , you stupid rooster. It’s different.”

“And I’m a _fan_ , shitty Cabbage. It’s not.”

Cavendish crossed his arms and shamelessly pouted. Bartolomeo accepted the victory.

When Cavendish spoke again, it was to pointedly change the subject. “Wasn’t there some movie you wanted me to watch?”

“Uh…yeah like half a dozen. But I was probably talking about Strong World.”

“Can I borrow it?”

Bartolomeo shrugged. “Sure. It’s…” He cast his gaze around the cluttered living room. “Around here somewhere.”

“Are you going to help me look?”

“Nah. What time is dinner?”

“Our reservation is in half an hour. We should leave in twenty minutes or so.”

Nodding, Bartolomeo stretched his arms up to rest behind his head. “Got it. Gonna nap until then. I’ve had a long day and _somebody_ interrupted my beauty sleep.”

“Oh, is _that_ why you’re so ugly?”

“Creative.” Bartolomeo clapped sarcastically and then resettled his arms as he returned Cavendish’s glare.

Cavendish sighed in half-hearted annoyance and began rummaging around the room when Bartolomeo closed his eyes. 

After a minute or so, he reopened them, watching as Cavendish meticulously made his way through the various stacks of clutter. When he bent down to check the row of movies lined up in the entertainment center Bartolomeo was given the barest glimpse at the place where his lean thighs met the curve of his ass and by God was it glorious. Maybe wearing just sweatpants hadn’t been his best idea.

Raising one knee in an attempt to at least partially cover the bulge rapidly forming in his pants, Bartolomeo eased a shaky breath out between his lips and squeezed his eyes shut again. If he didn’t want Cavendish to catch him getting hard over that damn skirt, he was going to have to give himself a pretty good distraction. 

Alright. _Boxing. Luffy-senpai. He won. Predictable, but still exciting every time._ A good start. 

_Dinner soon. Vegetables. Yuck. Frozen peas. Cabbage. …in a skirt, with, God, his long legs…and tight ass._

No. 

_C’mon, Bartolomeo, get it together!_

Physically shaking his head to clear it, he started again. 

_Work. Gladius. Annoying motherfucker. His turn to win next before I take it back in the big finale. Maybe Cavendish could come and watch. Maybe…I could watch Cavendish come._

Fuck. 

“Bartolomeo…”

Cavendish’s voice was low and startlingly neutral. Barto frowned, wondering what had caused the sudden change in tone. There wasn’t anything he was worried about Cavendish finding in his things.

Unless.

His eyes snapped open and he found Cavendish with his hands in a familiar box. It usually lived in his closet, but he had brought it out the other day because…well, that wasn’t important, not right now. What mattered was that Cavendish was looking down into a box half-full of magazines with his face on them.

He looked back over his shoulder to meet Bartolomeo’s panicked stare, his expression indecipherable. 

“You told me you hadn’t seen any of my work.” 

Cavendish reached down as Bartolomeo scrambled up from the couch, moving toward him and then stopping short, unsure of what he was supposed to do or say.

“Some of these are…old. And…” Cavendish fingered a dog-eared corner, leaving the rest unsaid. ‘Well-loved’ was as apt a term as any.

If this was happening, Bartolomeo had a total of zero excuses left not to just admit it. Admit _everything_. 

“Okay, yeah, I lied. What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, hey, Cabbage! Long time no see. Ya probably don’t remember me, but I’ve spent the last twelve goddamned years buyin’ magazines with your face in ‘em cause I sure as hell couldn’t forget you.’” He uttered a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, Cavendish. I’ve always thought so.”

Cavendish didn’t respond, flipping slowly through the stack in front of him. When he did speak, he still didn’t turn away. 

“Which one’s your favorite?”

“Uh…” Despite the rough clearing of his throat, Bartolomeo didn’t hesitate to answer. “The one with the horse.”

At that, Cavendish did turn. His gaze flicked downward and lingered for a moment. “My photo shoot with Farul? Why that one?” His expression looked more amused than anything else and Bartolomeo allowed himself to relax slightly. 

“Cause, um,” Bartolomeo scratched at the back of his neck. “You can see how fuckin’ strong your legs are in those tight uh, anti…quarian—”

“Equestrian.”

“Whatever. Those pants ya wear. You look so damn pretty ridin’ that horse, couldn’t help but imagine the way you’d look ridin’…somethin’ else,” he finished lamely, the words tripping off of his tongue before he could stop them. 

Cavendish’s answering smirk was unbearably smug. “I asked which is your favorite not which one you jerk off to the most.”

“Yeah well, they’re the same,” Barto snapped, trying and failing not to look as flustered as he was. “Don’t expect you to understand.”

Cavendish nodded absently before turning away again and compulsively straightening the stack of magazines. When the silence stretched out between them, he walked over to the kitchen counter to busy his hands with something and keep Bartolomeo from meeting his eyes. 

Bartolomeo trailed aimlessly after him, waiting to see what his reaction would be. His gaze followed a deep flush as it painted Cavendish’s exposed shoulders and the tips of his ears. 

“I masturbated watching your match with Gladius on TV last week.”

A small, choked sound escaped from Bartolomeo’s mouth, caught somewhere between his throat and teeth before it could fully become the moan that wanted to answer the implication of those words. He stepped forward, just a few scant inches away when Cavendish got the nerve to turn. A soft gasp parted Cavendish’s lips, and their proximity allowed Bartolomeo to _taste_ it, sweet and tempting and dangerous. His hands flattened on either side of Cavendish’s waist, pressing him back against the counter, his arms creating an effective barrier against his escape. 

“What the hell is this?” Bartolomeo asked. His voice was rough, long-building desperation bleeding into his tone. “What are we?”

Cavendish’s tongue swept absently across his lips and Bartolomeo couldn’t tear his eyes away. “What do you want to be?”

“With you.” Bartolomeo’s broad shoulders rose and fell in a defeated shrug. “I wanna be with you.” God it felt good to finally say it.

Cavendish trembled at the admission. He turned his gaze nervously aside, unable to meet the bald vulnerability in Bartolomeo’s eyes. “It wouldn’t work.”

“Bullshit it wouldn’t,” Bartolomeo answered savagely. “It would work if we made it work.”

“We’re always fighting—”

“We fought as kids cause I didn’t think there was a better way to get your attention than bein’ a little shit, and we’ve been fightin’ now cause neither of us knows what the fuck it is we want. Well, this is me sayin’ I’ve figured it out. It’s you, Cavendish. I want _you_.” When Cavendish didn’t reply, Bartolomeo continued, devolving into a nervous ramble. “Hell, I didn’t even really know I liked men too until I was fifteen and havin’ wet dreams about you and I’m not a fucking kid anymore so—”

“Bartolomeo.”

“—I mean, I jack it enough that _that_ doesn’t happen, but like eight times out of ten I’m still thinkin’ about _you_. You drive me fuckin’ crazy and—”

“Shut your idiot mouth and kiss me.”

The joining of their lips wasn’t as gentle and effortless as they had both imagined it, as it might have been at the top of the Ferris wheel or on the couch in Bartolomeo’s room at Corrida. Instead, it was messy, demanding, born of mutual impatience, Bartolomeo taking advantage of Cavendish’s hitching gasp to surge past his lips and plunder his mouth with his tongue. When Cavendish made a concentrated effort to soften the contact, Bartolomeo tugged on his bottom lip with his sharp canines and felt Cavendish slump weakly against his chest. 

Bartolomeo’s arms were around his waist before he could stumble, hauling him up to sit on the edge of the counter. As soon as he was settled, Bartolomeo’s hands were _everywhere_ , trying to touch each inch of skin within reach. He slid them up Cavendish’s powerful thighs, thumbs brushing the firm outline of his erection and earning a shaky groan. 

“Barto…”

Trying to catch his breath, Cavendish tugged on Bartolomeo’s hair to ease him away from his lips, eliciting a growl as the pull of his fingers shot straight to Bartolomeo’s dick. He was panting against Bartolomeo’s ear a moment later, the larger man’s mouth firmly latched to his collarbone as his hands coaxed Cavendish’s legs to wrap around his waist. 

Cavendish complied, and Bartolomeo felt his heels push eagerly at the small of his back, urging him forward until he was close enough to grind up against Cavendish’s hard cock. They both groaned at the sensation and Bartolomeo mindlessly repeated the motion, rutting insistently against Cavendish until he was dizzy with pleasure. 

“B-Bartolomeo—ah!”

Bartolomeo licked a wet stripe across Cavendish’s Adam’s apple as he threw his head back, the blunt curve of his nails digging into Bartolomeo’s bare shoulders. Raising his hands, Bartolomeo buried them in Cavendish’s hair. It was so long, so pretty, and he’d been aching to run his fingers through it since he was a gawky pre-pubescent teen. Cavendish offered a soft sigh of appreciation as Bartolomeo stroked his fingers through his curls, his mouth falling back to the smooth hollow where Cavendish’s neck and collarbone met as he rocked his hips eagerly forward. 

He didn’t think he could get enough friction to come this way, but it felt good, felt _incredible_. Fuck, he never wanted to stop. Cavendish looked so beautiful with his skirt hiked up around his thighs and his sweater tugged low enough on one shoulder to reveal just the slightest hint of pink. Bartolomeo wanted to kiss him fucking everywhere and that teasing little nipple seemed like a good place to start.

“Barto, wait.” Cavendish’s voice was almost a whine, breathless and pleading. 

With some effort, Bartolomeo dragged his gaze up to meet Cavendish’s. “What?”

“I…” Cavendish toyed with a fraying thread on his sleeve, the blush across his cheeks deepening. “I want you to be different,” he blurted, taking Bartolomeo by surprise. “I don’t want to just fuck,” he continued, lowering his hands to twine his fingers through Bartolomeo’s. “I mean, I _do_ want that, _fuck_ I want that, but not _just_ that. I’ve fucked a lot of people, Barto.”

Bartolomeo knew that, but hearing it while he was rock hard and cradled between Cavendish’s thighs wasn’t the best feeling in the world.

“But I want to actually…date you. If that’s something you want too. I’ve thought _a lot_ about hooking up with you, but I don’t think I can settle for just that, because I…” Cavendish was almost embarrassed to admit it. He had always preferred things casual, going on dates but never dating, fucking but never staying the night. There had been no desire or reason for any feelings to get involved. “I like you, Bartolomeo.” He offered a smile of fond exasperation. “God knows why, but I like you a lot.”

The tension bled slowly from Bartolomeo’s features and he bent down to press a kiss against Cavendish’s swollen lips. 

“I like you too, stupid Cabbage. And I guess I’ll date you, if you’re really so desperate for my affection.”

Cavendish rolled his eyes, chest blooming with a pleasant warmth. He stayed locked tight with Bartolomeo for another long moment, peppering his face with soft, grateful kisses. 

Bartolomeo let it continue for a bit, enjoying the way he could feel Cavendish’s smile against his skin. Finally, he used his hands to free himself from the grip of Cavendish’s legs and took a few steps backward. 

“We still have dinner.”

Cavendish nodded, hazy eyes wandering along the length of Bartolomeo’s body. “You wearing that?”

Bartolomeo snorted and started off toward his bedroom to change. After rummaging through his dresser for a minute, a thought occurred to him and he popped his head back around the door frame.

“This our first date?”

Cavendish looked disgusted. “God no. You think I would take you to Pasta Lake for our first date? Wearing _this_?” He hopped down from the counter and smoothed his skirt out in an absent gesture. 

“I think it’s hot. The way you look in a skirt is uh…” Lacking the proper words, Bartolomeo whistled appreciatively. “Seriously. Damn.”

Cavendish basked in the praise, his lips curving into a pleased smile. “Noted.”

After throwing on an outfit that was appropriate enough for a definitely-not-a-date dinner, Bartolomeo joined Cavendish in the bathroom where the older man was re-perfecting his appearance. Their moment of distraction in the kitchen had ensured that Bartolomeo didn’t have nearly enough time to style his hair properly, so he just ran a comb through it before tying it up into a damp, disheveled bun. 

“You ready, Cabbage?”

“Ready enough,” he conceded, turning away from the mirror. “Does it look like I was as close to getting fucked by a big man with sharp teeth as I feel like it does?”

Bartolomeo’s gaze swept away from his own reflection. His eyes moved from Cavendish’s tousled, hastily finger-brushed hair to his red, swollen lips and the pretty flush still painting his cheeks. He looked good, and unbearably enticing. 

“Yeah, it does. Date or not, everyone there is gonna know I’m the one who did that. And,” Bartolomeo bent down until his lips were beside Cavendish’s ear. “I can’t wait to see what you look like when I really _do_ fuck you.”

Cavendish sighed heavily for appearances, but the look he directed up at Bartolomeo as he drew back gave him away. “I need you to stop saying things like that. I’m hungry, Barto. Practically wasting away at this point, and we’re already going to be running late.”

“Mm, well, maybe I want an appetizer.” A large hand fell to grip the curve of Cavendish’s ass and he groaned in frustration, lifting onto his toes to give Bartolomeo a sloppy and far less than innocent kiss. 

“You’re not getting in my pants with a line like that, ‘Cannibal’,” Cavendish scolded, making Barto grin. “Come on, Bartolomeo. Just a little while, that’s all I’m asking. You’ve waited twelve years, can’t you wait just a bit longer?”

“Sure. Anything for you, Cabbage.” And then Bartolomeo obeyed and pulled away, because he meant it. If it meant getting to be with Cavendish, he was pretty sure he’d be content to wait forever.


	2. Connecting

In the end, it took three days for Cavendish to prepare for their first date, including but not limited to making appointments with his tailor and the local clinic. He wasn’t going to half-ass it now that it was actually happening, so he used every connection he had and made sure every box on his list had been checked before reaching out to make the final arrangements.

Bartolomeo waited with amusement if not much patience, teasing Cavendish about his obsessive attention to detail at every opportunity. Still, it felt nice to know that he was putting so much effort into it, into _him_.

When the night finally arrived, Cavendish showed up at Bartolomeo’s house a little early. Finding the front door unlocked, he let himself in and Barto called out from the direction of his bedroom.

“C’mere, Cabbage.”

Cavendish hesitated for a moment. “Are you decent? I’m not going to let you coax me into your bed and miss everything I’ve been working on.”

“Not sure if decent is the right word,” Bartolomeo replied. “But I’ve got clothes on. Just…come on.”

When he appeared in the doorway Bartolomeo was standing in front of the mirror in his closet, frowning and fiddling distractedly with the bowtie at his throat. He sent a despairing look toward Cavendish when the sound of his laughter made his presence known.

“I look like a fuckin’ moron.”

“Well, you are,” Cavendish answered easily. “But you don’t.”

He had sent Bartolomeo an outfit for the occasion, knowing the other man didn’t own anything nearly nice enough for what he had planned. It was, admittedly, not something that Bartolomeo would have ever chosen for himself, but Cavendish had been very clear about what he wanted when he spoke to Pappag, and had ensured that it still had a few of the oddly charming qualities that made Bartolomeo’s sense of fashion so…unique.

Bartolomeo’s frown deepened and Cavendish moved to stand in front of him, taking over control of the unruly bowtie. 

“Do you hate it?”

“No…” Bartolomeo admitted. “I don’t _hate_ it. I just…” He hooked a finger between the bow and his neck, tugging until Cavendish gave him a reprimanding look. “Do _you_ like it?”

Cavendish nodded, pulling back to give him a thorough appraisal. He was wearing a light pink dress shirt and checkered trousers a shade darker with a pale blue bowtie at his throat and a white coat that sported the same fur collar as the one he wore during his matches. Cavendish thought it looked quite dashing.

Still, as much as he loved the way it looked on him, he was just as eager to take it all back off.

“I do.” Cavendish ran a finger along the thick black line of one of Bartolomeo’s suspenders before hooking his hand around it and pulling the taller man down into a kiss. “I think you’re passably attractive.”

Bartolomeo’s hands fell to bunch in Cavendish’s hair, tilting his chin so he could deepen the kiss. They were both flushed when they finally pulled apart and for a second, Cavendish was ready to throw everything else out the window if it meant he could keep feeling Bartolomeo’s lips on his.

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Cabbage.”

Cavendish smiled sweetly. “I always look good, Barto. Are you ready to go?” 

Rolling his eyes, Bartolomeo shook his head. “Just a sec.”

Cavendish followed him out into the kitchen, raising an eyebrow when Bartolomeo held out a bouquet of roses.

“These are…for you.”

Cavendish took them. “You got me flowers?”

“Yeah. I thought…well, ya really like things that taste like rose, and you have that pair of pants with the rose pattern that make your ass look real nice. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date intended for…dating, but…” A mottled flush spread across Bartolomeo’s cheeks and he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Should I not have?”

“No, no,” Cavendish assured him hastily. “They’re lovely. Thank you.” He couldn’t remember the last time someone had actually given him flowers. The bouquets from his fans that Suleiman wearily passed his way didn’t really count.

Bartolomeo looked visibly relieved and he bent down to meet Cavendish halfway for a kiss.

“Now I’m ready. Let’s go.”

They were only a few minutes out from their destination when Bartolomeo realized where they were headed. Cavendish heaved a sigh as the younger man squealed with delight. 

“All Blue?!” A dopey smile lit up his features and Cavendish had to pretend that he didn’t love the way Bartolomeo’s eyes shone when he was geeking out about his heroes. “It’s booked out for like… _years_ in advance. How the hell did ya swing this, Cav?”

Cavendish shrugged. “I have my ways.”

Really, he had snuck Bartolomeo’s phone away from him and sent himself the ten contacts whose names were accompanied by a copious amount of star and heart emojis. Then, he’d left a message with the one he knew owned an upscale restaurant, explaining first and most importantly who he was, and then the fact that he had begun to date a certain dork who claimed to know him. He thought it was a stretch and had a backup plan ready, but much to his surprise, Sanji had been perfectly willing to free up a table for the two of them.

Once Cavendish passed off his keys to the valet, Bartolomeo reached for his hand, twining their fingers together as they walked into the restaurant. 

It was every bit as high-brow as Cavendish had heard, and while he silently appreciated the décor, Bartolomeo started scanning the crowd in hopes of catching a glimpse of All Blue’s owner and executive chef.

“Reservation for Cavendish.”

The hostess checked her list, eyebrows rising slightly before she looked back up at the two of them.

“Follow me, sirs.”

They were led to a secluded table along one of the interior walls, its booth curved around the back to encourage close proximity and a half-length curtain available for additional privacy. 

“Your waiter will be with you shortly.”

Bartolomeo was still looking around when they sat down and it wasn’t until Cavendish laid a hand against his thigh that he turned his gaze downward. 

“Mm?”

“You’re here with _me_ ,” Cavendish answered, his thumb tracing Bartolomeo’s cheekbone as he coaxed him down into a long, slow kiss. “Pay attention.”

Bartolomeo nodded, fidgeting beneath the warmth of Cavendish’s palm. “Sorry. This is incredible, really.” His expression softened and he kissed Cavendish again. “ _You’re_ incredible.”

Cavendish knew that, of course, but he didn’t mind hearing it. 

When their waiter arrived they ordered drinks and Bartolomeo looked toward Cavendish with a wide smile. 

“Do you trust me?”

Smiling back, Cavendish nodded. 

“Chef’s choice.”

“Yes, sirs.”

“That wasn’t quite fair,” Cavendish teased. “You should have asked me if I trusted your trust in the chef. I might have had a different answer.”

Bartolomeo looked genuinely offended. “Sanji-senpai can’t make anything you won’t like, I promise.”

Cavendish hummed incredulously, his eyes falling to the petulant jut of Bartolomeo’s bottom lip. Lifting himself slightly from the booth, Cavendish reached for the privacy curtain and pulled it shut. When Bartolomeo looked at him quizzically, he shrugged.

“I’d just like to have a nice date without anyone gawking, is that okay? Even if I wasn’t famous and you weren’t…well-known, we tend to attract attention.” He reached a hand up to affectionately ruffle Bartolomeo’s brightly colored hair and the younger man made a sound of appreciation.

“That’s fine. I just thought maybe you were doin’ it so you could make out with me.”

Cavendish crossed his arms over his chest and Bartolomeo watched as a rosy blush painted the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m not always thinking about kissing you, Barto.”

“No?” Bartolomeo shrugged, a soft breath leaving his lips as he tilted his face toward Cavendish. “I’m always thinkin’ about kissin’ you.” 

Before Cavendish could lean in, Bartolomeo reached out to drag his fingers through the other man’s long, silky curls. He watched as they bounced back into place along Cavendish’s sternum, then swept them aside to gain access to his neck. 

“Ya look real good tonight, Cavendish,” Bartolomeo whispered, breath hot behind Cavendish’s ear as he pressed a kiss to the edge of his jaw. “All dressed up for me. Mine to taste…to touch…to…” He trailed off, leaving the suggestion hanging in the air between them. 

Withholding for even just three days had been difficult, now that Cavendish knew Bartolomeo wanted him as much as he wanted Bartolomeo. He had every intention of taking the younger man home with him tonight, and the promise of his words made the anticipation even harder to bear. 

Cavendish was dizzy and breathless and aching when the curtain ruffled. Bartolomeo drew back, his own chest heaving. 

A hand slipped into view, expertly balancing a large silver tray as both an announcement and a warning that the curtain would be pulled back in a moment. 

The voice that came from the other side was husky and impassive. Bartolomeo’s eyes went wide at the sound of it. 

“Veal marsala and pan-seared halibut for an old acquaintance and some man I’ve never met.”

The way Bartolomeo gasped at the word ‘acquaintance,’ Cavendish would’ve thought he’d just been declared the man’s blood brother.

The tray came down to rest on the tabletop and the curtain parted, revealing a young blond man looking polished and impeccable in his chef’s whites. He had a toothpick between his teeth, at the insistence of his father, his husband, and the health department. 

Bartolomeo gripped Cavendish’s leg so tight it felt like he was going to crack his kneecap. Cavendish tried to hide a wince. 

An oddly styled eyebrow quirked upward. “Are you going to introduce me, Crest Head, or just keep staring?”

It was astonishing how fast Bartolomeo’s entire face went red. “S-San-Sanji-senpai,” he stammered. “This is Cab—Cavendish.”

Sanji stuck out a hand and Cavendish shook it. 

“You said you’re dating him, didn’t you?” Cavendish nodded and Sanji offered a weary sigh, fingers twitching toward his lips in a habitual motion. “There’s something about green-haired idiots, isn’t there?”

Cavendish smiled as Bartolomeo sputtered ineffectually. “I suppose there is.”

Sanji absently rolled the toothpick between his lips to the other side of his mouth before clapping a hand down on Bartolomeo’s shoulder. “Don’t stop givin’ him shit, Barto,” he imparted. “It keeps things interesting.”

Bartolomeo nodded, eyes brimming with tears. 

“It’s on the house tonight.”

As Sanji pulled the curtain back into place and retreated to the kitchen, Bartolomeo stared dazedly into the middle distance. “He compared me to Zoro-senpai.”

Cavendish snorted. “That’s what you got out of that? He called you an idiot, Barto.”

Bartolomeo’s eyes narrowed to a glare. “So do you, Cabbage. Regularly. And you seem to like me.”

“Are you trying to say he’s attracted to you?”

“If only.” A wistful sigh accompanied the words and Cavendish’s lips morphed into a pout.

“Bartolomeo, I’m _right here_!” 

“I know, Cabbage.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to the warm skin of Cavendish’s cheek. “And you’re very handsome.”

Cavendish knew Barto was being facetious, but he wasn’t the type to just ignore a compliment. “Thank you, I’m aware.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes before Bartolomeo looked back over at Cavendish. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know about you.”

“Hm?”

“Have you never dated someone before? Come on. I wanna get to know ya better.”

Cavendish considered it. 

“I’ve had Farul for seventeen years now. My father bought him for me for my thirteenth birthday.”

Bartolomeo held up a halting finger. “I already knew that actually. You talked about it in the…the horse magazine. You know the one.”

Cavendish raised one thin eyebrow. “You actually read the interview that was in it?”

“Yeah, it helps me get in the mood,” Bartolomeo quipped. “You’ll have to dig a little deeper than that.”

“Alright, but this isn’t fair. You’ve been following my career for years, I haven’t had unlimited access to personal information about you.”

“I thought you Googled me. Or were ya just lookin’ at the pictures?”

Cavendish flushed and opted not to deign that question with an answer. 

“I rigged the superlative elections my senior year,” he finally admitted. “I didn’t actually get voted most popular.”

Bartolomeo offered a scandalized gasp. “No way. Who did?”

“Trafalgar. _Law Trafalgar_ , of all people.” 

Bartolomeo cackled, only deepening Cavendish’s frown. “Sorry. You’re right, he totally sucks.”

“You only think that because—”

Jaw tight, Bartolomeo shook his head. “Don’t say it.” He muttered something under his breath and Cavendish patted a sympathetic hand against his leg. 

“Your turn. What don’t I know about you?”

“I’ve never lost a game of backgammon in my entire life.” 

Cavendish shot Barto a quizzical glance. “Have you played it a lot?”

“Oh, yeah. I, uh, I was born and mostly raised in the East Blue, have I told you that?”

“Not explicitly, but you’ve certainly retained the accent.” 

Bartolomeo nodded. “Right, well, anyway. After my parents died, I moved to the New World to live with Gambia and his grandma, and she fuckin’ loves a good game of backgammon. I must’ve played her hundreds of times by now. She still makes me play a game or two every time I go over to visit and I’ve won every single time.”

“Hmm.” Cavendish cocked his head slightly and leveled a fond look at Bartolomeo. “Have you ever considered that she might be letting you win?”

Judging by the expression on his face, he hadn’t.

“Nah. No way. You’ll see. I’ll bring ya over for Christmas Eve dinner and kick your ass too.”

Cavendish’s eyebrows rose and Bartolomeo flushed beneath his level gaze.

“I mean, if you wanna. If ya don’t have other plans. Whatever. You’re up again.”

Laughing lightly as Bartolomeo grew increasingly flustered, Cavendish soothed a gentle hand across the back of his neck and toyed distractedly with the ends of his hair as he responded. 

“I can play the piano. Not like…incredibly well, but not terribly. I took lessons when I was a kid, but I mostly just play by ear. I have a baby grand at home that I still use on occasion.”

“Play for me sometime?”

Cavendish nodded and took a bite to hide the smile that tugged at his lips. “Yeah, sure.” When Bartolomeo took a break to finish off his dinner and absently licked his fork clean, Cavendish remembered something he’d been wondering for a while. “You need to give me at least one more, but…I have a question while you’re thinking about it. Can you touch your nose with your tongue?”

Bartolomeo laughed and nodded. With what looked like minimal effort if any, he flicked his absurdly long tongue out and upward, tapping it a few times against the tip of his nose. Cavendish watched with a mixture of disgust, fascination, and arousal. 

“Everything ya hoped and dreamed?” Barto teased.

“Shut up,” Cavendish countered. The pad of Bartolomeo’s thumb swept pointedly across the telling flush of his cheeks and he turned away. His chest was tight, heartbeat thrumming wildly, and he couldn’t quite seem to regain his composure beneath Bartolomeo’s amused gaze. “I was just…curious. Your turn to tell me something else.”

“Mmhm, sure, okay. _Curious._ ” Bartolomeo winked as Cavendish fumed, arms crossed over his chest. “Well…I took speech therapy up until high school. Had a really bad lisp as a kid cause my teeth are fuckin’ huge and my folks couldn’t afford braces. Actually, that’s the reason I first started callin’ you Cabbage. Your name gave me a bit of trouble sometimes and I didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of ya.”

Cavendish looked back at him, features softening into a smile that refused to fade. “If we’re being honest, I don’t _hate_ it when you call me that. Just…one request?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t _ever_ call me Cabbage when we’re having sex.”

Bartolomeo grinned. “I think I can manage that. How about cutesy little pet names instead?” He meant it as a joke, but when Cavendish darted his eyes away his smile sharpened. “Good to know.”

Trying to hide how easily Bartolomeo could fluster him, Cavendish made a show of pushing away his empty plate. “I have to admit, your admiration for Sanji might be justified. He’s a very good chef.”

“Told ya!”

As if on cue, their waiter appeared before them. “Pardon the intrusion, sirs. Boss wanted to know if you still like cheesecake.”

“Oh, f— _heck_ yeah.”

The young man couldn’t quite hide his expression of bewildered amusement. “I’ll let him know.”

The dessert that arrived was far and away better than the deep-fried monstrosity Bartolomeo had insisted Cavendish eat at the fair. Cavendish let Bartolomeo have the last bite, but when it didn’t all quite make it into his mouth, Cavendish was happy to lean in and claim the last little bit from his lips. 

As Bartolomeo leaned back and sighed contentedly, Cavendish looked up at him. Though the moment of silence they shared was comfortable, there was a palpable tension building in the space between them. Bartolomeo steadily met Cavendish’s eyes until the older man spoke.

“Are you ready to go?”

Bartolomeo nodded, trying and failing to get one last glimpse of Sanji on their way out to the parking lot. While Cavendish headed for the valet, Bartolomeo asked the hostess to bid the chef their farewells. 

Sticking his hands in the pockets of his trousers, Barto wandered over to where Cavendish was waiting. There was a pensive look on his face and when Bartolomeo’s shadow fell over him, he looked up. 

“Bartolomeo?” His voice was quiet, a little shaky on the final syllable. 

“Hm?”

There was an uncharacteristic vulnerability in Cavendish’s bright blue eyes. “Come home with me?”

The word ‘yes’ leapt to the front of Bartolomeo’s mind, capital letters lit up and flashing, but he carefully considered his reply. “I thought ya wanted to take things slow. Wanted this to be…different.”

Cavendish nodded, no trace of insincerity in his expression. “It already is. _You_ are.”

A nervous twinge fluttered to life in Barto’s stomach. “Then yeah. I’d like that.”

Though it was a short drive back to Cavendish’s house, the air in the car felt thick and oppressive. Bartolomeo kept glancing over toward Cavendish, watching the way his hands flexed around the steering wheel in an unconscious rhythm. He slipped into a daze, imagining those hands finally, _finally_ where he’d wanted them for so long.

The house they stopped in front of was, for lack of a better word, huge. It was a house befitting a man at the top of his career, and Cavendish had always been concerned with appearances. Still, Bartolomeo wondered if living alone with all that empty space was lonely. 

“Are you coming?”

Bartolomeo looked up to see Cavendish leaning against the open passenger door. 

He winked. “Not yet.”

Eyes rolling, Cavendish headed inside and left Bartolomeo to follow.

Cavendish had just settled his bouquet of roses into a vase on the dining room table when he heard the front door close and he stalled. Usually, what came next was the easy part. But this wasn’t a stranger looking for a fling or a fan wanting to get close to their idol. This was Bartolomeo. Earnest, passionate Bartolomeo who had been hoping for, imagining, _wanting_ this for almost half of his life. 

Cavendish felt himself slipping, his breath fluttering too quickly through his chest, making his head feel light and his thoughts turn sour. How was he supposed to measure up against a version of himself that had been crafted over a decade of wishful fantasy? Was he even the same man that Bartolomeo wanted? Would he be a disappointment? Would he be _enough_ or would—

One large hand spanned across Cavendish’s hip and the other settled on his chest, soothing its rapid rise and fall with a touch that was light but deliberate, grounding. Bartolomeo’s body was warm and solid against his back.

“You look tense.”

A thrill raced down Cavendish’s spine as his hair was swept to one shoulder, soft lips settling against the nape of his neck.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m…” It wasn’t quite the right word, but his mind was too muddled to search for an alternative. “Nervous.” Barto’s tongue was warm and wet along the line of his jaw, giving way to sharp tingling as the damp skin met cool air. “I want this to be good for you.”

“Where’s the cocky brat I fell for?” Bartolomeo turned Cavendish around and cradled his hands at the base of the smaller man’s skull to lift his gaze. “There ain’t no chance in hell you’ll make this anything less than incredible.”

Cavendish trembled. He could feel the pounding of his own pulse beneath the press of Bartolomeo’s thumbs at his jaw. He wanted more pressure, more friction. Just, _more_.

“But listen, Cav,” Barto continued, “That doesn’t matter. It’s not like either of us doesn’t know what we’re doin’, but we’ve still got shit to figure out together. We’ll fuck tonight, and then we’ll just keep fuckin’. Tomorrow, and then the day after that, and the day after _that_...” His lips ghosted over Cavendish’s panting mouth, promising more, and for a moment Cavendish forgot how to breathe. “And it’s just gonna keep gettin’ better and better.”

Surging forward, Cavendish kissed Bartolomeo like he was dying and his only hope for survival was stealing the breath from the other man’s lungs. His coat fell to pool at his feet and when Bartolomeo’s fingers moved to the buttons of his vest he felt a thrill of anticipation. 

Bartolomeo thought Cavendish’s initial hesitation was sweet, but he’d long passed the point of giving a single fuck except to _want_ him. He was already hard and only getting more so every time a new sound of appreciation slipped from Cavendish’s lips. There wasn’t any use in thinking until he was finally able to bury himself inside Cavendish’s tight, eager body.

“You alright takin’ it?”

Cavendish aided Bartolomeo’s thick fingers with the buttons of his dress shirt. “Yes. Not every time, if you aren’t opposed to that, but tonight I just need you inside of me.”

Need. God, that sounded _good_.

As they hurriedly combined their efforts to get Cavendish out of his clothes, Bartolomeo’s fingers began to uncover another layer beneath the older man’s shirt. It was soft and delicate and the first glimpse of one pert nipple pressed against the fabric made Bartolomeo’s cock twitch painfully.

“Fuck. Take off your pants.”

Cavendish complied without resistance as Bartolomeo freed himself from his coat and already crooked bowtie. He tugged open the buttons of his shirt and squirmed out of it, but by the time he reached for the clasps of his suspenders, Cavendish was already kicking away his slacks and Bartolomeo abandoned them to fall loosely across his hips.

Herding Cavendish toward the couch, Bartolomeo all but pounced when he landed heavily on his back.

The actual sight of Cavendish spread out beneath him was so much better than he had ever imagined it. He was all pale skin, lean muscle, never-ending legs, his blond curls splayed out in a way that made him look absolutely goddamn _angelic_. Every single inch of him was so far beyond gorgeous it made Bartolomeo’s breath catch just _looking_ at him. When he returned Bartolomeo’s stare, eyes full of desire and affection, for _him_ , Barto was sure he could die happy just getting the chance to _witness_ him.

Not to mention what he was still wearing. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Cav…” Bartolomeo’s hands settled restlessly at the curve of Cavendish’s slender waist, thumbs stroking insistently across the foreign fabric. “What _is_ this?”

Bartolomeo’s pupils were so wide his eyes looked black and Cavendish felt his skin flush beneath the hungry stare. 

“It’s lingerie.”

Well, shit, okay. Barto might’ve been able to figure that out on his own, but he’d never seen anything quite like it before. It was a soft purple, striking against Cavendish’s pale skin, with a lace top that flared across his shoulders before cutting in a deep v along his chest and ending just below the dip of his navel. Where the lace ended an even thinner mesh began, tapering across his hips and between his thighs. The sheer, high-waisted panties put his cock on full display, hard against the flat plane of his belly and already dampening the light fabric.

“Did you…wear it for me?”

Cavendish nodded. “I had it custom tailored. After you told me how good I look in purple.”

Bartolomeo made a sound somewhere between a growl and a strangled gasp, his fingers tightening their hold on Cavendish’s waist. He hadn’t just worn it for him, he’d _made_ it for him, which meant that no one else had ever seen Cavendish the way Bartolomeo was seeing him now. 

“I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous, but, bringing you here was part of my plan for tonight.”

“Well…” Bartolomeo shifted his eyes away. “Not to say I mind, but, I wasn’t exactly expecting to be…seduced.” A hot flush bloomed across his cheeks. “I showered this afternoon, but I haven’t done laundry for a while so, uh…”

Cavendish cocked an eyebrow, one finger lifting to play along the worn band of elastic just visible above Bartolomeo’s slacks now that his suspenders had been rendered useless. “How many days have you been wearing these boxers?”

Red crept down across Bartolomeo’s chest as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Like two and a half.”

A brief huff of amused laughter left Cavendish’s parted lips and he pulled Bartolomeo down to kiss him.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t suck your dick then?”

Bartolomeo grumbled his assent. 

When their lips parted, Bartolomeo began to trail kisses down the visible cut of Cavendish’s chest, only stopping to look up when his tongue dipped into Cavendish’s navel and earned an appreciative groan.

“Let’s just say you’ll owe me one.”

Cavendish was still trying to remember what he had said to elicit that response when Bartolomeo’s head dropped again to suck at the darkened patch of fabric over the head of his cock. 

“Oh,” The first was a sound of realization, the second of exaltation. “ _Oh_!” Cavendish’s hands fell to tangle in Bartolomeo’s hair, anchoring him firmly in place. 

Barto grinned, tongue flicking out between his teeth to lap up the fluid beading along the slit. When Cavendish jolted and let out a wanton moan, Bartolomeo felt his head spin. His dick was stiff and aching against his zipper, but he was too caught up in the sounds falling from Cavendish’s lips to give too much of a damn about that yet. 

Rubbing firm circles against Cavendish’s jutting hip bones until he relaxed enough to loosen his grip, Bartolomeo pressed a series of sloppy, open-mouthed kisses across his shaft and balls until his tongue could reach its target. The first wet touch through the fabric had Cavendish arching his back and clawing at Bartolomeo’s shoulders with a desperation that was wholly arousing.

“Christ, Cavendish.” Bartolomeo couldn’t hold back a low laugh. “How pent up are you?”

Cavendish managed a weak smile and even that was just so goddamn beautiful. “Very.”

Letting his head fall back heavily on the arm of the couch, Cavendish hooked one leg up over the back and braced the other foot against the floor, giving Bartolomeo’s broad shoulders the space they needed between his thighs. 

Bartolomeo used one finger to tug aside the scrap of fabric separating him from his goal and then licked his way slowly from Cavendish’s balls to his asshole, back and forth, until Cavendish yanked him up by his hair. The harsh tug drew a startled sound of approval from his throat and _fucking hell_ he wished it would be worth leaving Cavendish’s body for a second to tear off his pants. 

“Either rim me properly or don’t,” Cavendish snapped, needy and impatient. “Don’t be such a tease.”

“But I like the way ya squirm for me, baby,” Bartolomeo replied, voice husky, tone provocative. He hadn’t forgotten the insinuation that Cavendish had let slip over dinner and his lips twitched into a satisfied smile when Cavendish’s cock jumped at the endearment. 

Pulling back a bit, Bartolomeo ran his hands in an appreciative arc across Cavendish’s thighs. “You could crack my skull with these. It’s hot. And they’re so smooth.” His eyes trailed along the length of Cavendish’s body, shiny and slick with sweat. “Do you shave?”

“No, idiot. I wax.” Bartolomeo snickered and Cavendish’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t laugh at me, you do too.”

Bartolomeo nodded, leaning in to nuzzle against Cavendish’s tender inner thigh. “Sure, but not as much as you. And I do it to make my job less uncomfortable. You do it cause ya think it makes ya look prettier.”

There was a teasing, affectionate lilt to his tone, but before Cavendish could answer in kind, Bartolomeo was scooting down toward the other end of the couch and bringing his lips to the arch of Cavendish’s raised foot. 

A hitched, disbelieving giggle bubbled from Cavendish’s throat at the ticklish sensation. He lifted an eyebrow as Bartolomeo nipped lightly at his heel.

“God, Barto, do you have a foot fetish?”

“Nah,” he answered easily, tongue circling the prominent bone of Cavendish’s ankle. “I just…” Bartolomeo hesitated, a self-conscious blush darkening his cheeks. His hand stroked softly along Cavendish’s calf, eyes raptly following the rise of goosebumps beneath the calloused pads of his fingers. “I’ve wanted this for a while, and there’s so much I wanna do to you. Wanna try it all, see what makes ya feel good.”

Cavendish’s lips parted in a soft sigh when Bartolomeo raised his calf, the sound melting into a barely contained groan as Barto swept his tongue along the back of his knee. “Tonight isn’t your only chance, you know,” he murmured, running a hand through Bartolomeo’s hair. He traced a nail lightly across the shell of his ear and watched as Bartolomeo shuddered when his pinky caught in the hoop of his earring and tugged playfully. 

“I know.” Bartolomeo eased Cavendish’s leg down to drape across his shoulder and moved his lips back up to the soft, smooth expanse of his inner thigh. “But I still wanna take my time with you.”

Cavendish intended to suggest that Barto take his time on an occasion when he wasn’t so urgently horny, but before he could speak, Bartolomeo’s teeth were bearing down, drawing blood toward the surface of his pale skin. A surprised, aborted moan left Cavendish’s lips and he stared through wide eyes as Bartolomeo’s tongue flattened against the dark mark already forming beneath his sharp canines. 

The small fraction of Cavendish’s mind that hadn’t been overtaken by the haze of arousal fritzed as Bartolomeo repeated the action, high enough on Cavendish’s thigh that his legs began to draw helplessly inward. 

The fact that he was being shamelessly bitten, blatantly _marked_ was nearly incomprehensible. Cavendish had certain rules for his casual lovers, a set of expectations that ensured he got what he wanted and nothing more. Minimal kissing, limited touching, absolutely no lasting marks. He ensured his own preparation, when he was in a situation that required it, and then all that was left was fucking, or getting fucked.

It had been a long time since anyone had been allowed to take liberties with him during sex—a _very_ long time. He listened to the soft, possessive sounds being uttered against his already bruising skin and wondered if he had _ever_ been so utterly…worshipped.

Bartolomeo’s eyes found his again and Cavendish reached out to draw the other man closer only to be thwarted when Bartolomeo buried his head between his spread thighs. He meant to complain, albeit, half-heartedly, but then Bartolomeo’s tongue was inside of him and he arched forward reflexively, legs clenching around Barto’s shoulders.

_“Fuck!”_

A tongue like Bartolomeo’s would be a bit of a waste if it wasn’t good for anything sexual, but Cavendish hadn’t expected it to be _so good_. He would never forgive himself for wasting so much time when they could have been doing _this_ months ago.

Bartolomeo let out a deep, appreciative groan, his tongue exploring, lapping, _tasting_ , and fully enjoying the result. He’d had a few fantasies over the years that weren’t too dissimilar to this exact scenario, but he had never been able to imagine the way that Cavendish would react. Watching him writhe, feeling the pull of his fingers in his hair, hearing the way his breath hitched between each syllable of his name, Bartolomeo was glad for the first time that his imagination had let him down. If he’d known that Cavendish would actually _whimper_ beneath his ministrations, he would’ve had far less patience over the last twelve years, and far more indecently fast masturbation sessions.

When Bartolomeo pulled back to breathe and saw Cavendish’s harried expression, he moved up and kissed him. Deeply. _Thoroughly._ His teeth grazed across Cavendish’s bottom lip, nipping and tugging until it began to throb dully, licking into his mouth when the sensation made Cavendish’s lips part in a low groan.

Cavendish had been diligent about making sure he was clean and prepared for this eventuality, but tasting himself on Bartolomeo’s tongue still felt so _dirty_ , in a way that made his cock throb and his hole clench in an eager need to be filled. 

“Ya got lube around here, or do you want me to use my spit?”

“I…here?” Cavendish asked blearily. “I have a bed, you brute.”

Bartolomeo laughed. “We’ll get there. Wanna keep playin’ with ya first though. Can you take my fingers without lube?”

Cavendish hesitated for a moment. He was almost sure he could, but that would only delay things when they got to the main attraction, and he was already starting to get impatient. 

“Probably, but there’s some in the coffee table.”

Bartolomeo fumbled for it, casting an amused glance up at Cavendish. “Have sex on your couch a lot?”

“Get bored and jerk off on my couch a lot,” Cavendish answered, shrugging when Bartolomeo grinned. 

He pressed forward, one thick finger sliding down to the last knuckle without resistance. Bartolomeo’s eyes flicked back up, irises barely visible between lust-blown pupils and heavy lids. Even with lube and the attentions of his mouth, he had been expecting a bit of resistance, even if only a momentary contraction. Instead, he could tell, could _feel_ the evidence of Cavendish’s impatient anticipation. Bartolomeo knew from the way the muscle eased around the intrusion that Cavendish had spent a few long moments before their date stuffed full with his own fingers, imagining this moment, _aching_ for what was to come. 

Confronted with the proof of Cavendish’s own longing, Bartolomeo unthinkingly rocked his hips forward, suddenly desperate for any sort of friction. He was startled out of the daze he had been spiraling into when Cavendish’s foot left the floor to press firmly against the bulge in his pants. 

“You mind?”

He shook his head, rendered momentarily speechless by the warring images of the Cavendish in his mind fingering himself open and the one before him, stretched around the wide spread of his knuckle.

The arch of Cavendish’s foot slid steadily across Bartolomeo’s erection, urging rough, panting grunts from somewhere deep in his chest. 

“You’re—you’re fuckin’ perfect, Cavendish.”

“Mmhm.” 

The smug smile on his lips was erased when Bartolomeo eased another finger inside of his ass, scissoring him open with growing impatience. 

“So tight and pretty and…” Bartolomeo hesitated. At an encouraging nod from Cavendish, he swore against the curve of his hip. “All for me.”

“That’s right,” Cavendish cooed, pressing up into Bartolomeo’s palm as it returned to his cock. “Tell me how much you love it.”

“So much,” Bartolomeo growled. He added more lube and then worked a third finger past Cavendish’s rim, pumping them in and out as the other man’s walls fluttered in anticipation. “You’re mine to tear apart, pretty boy.”

Cavendish keened, high and desperate and _delighted_ , loving the way those words sounded from Bartolomeo’s lips. He knew how beautiful he looked flushed and spread open and steadily working toward an orgasm. Still, being Barto’s _pretty boy_ was good. _Impossibly_ good.

Pushing Cavendish’s foot back toward the floor, Bartolomeo bent low across his chest, replacing his palm with his tongue. 

Cavendish’s cock was still trapped between his smooth belly and the mesh of his panties, twitching erratically and begging to be worked with a little more friction. 

“Need more,” he gasped, pressing Bartolomeo’s head down until he had no other option than to withdraw his tongue and increase the suction of his lips.

There was a part of him that just wanted Bartolomeo to free his dick from its confines and take it properly down his throat, but Cavendish couldn’t deny that the sensation of his lips through the mesh was new, and strange, and _wonderful_.

“Barto?”

He hummed in response and Cavendish shuddered when the vibration drew his balls tighter. 

“Would—would you be comfortable choking me?”

Bartolomeo pulled back enough to speak. “Now?”

Cavendish shook his head, arching slightly when Bartolomeo’s fingers almost, _almost_ reached his prostate. Goddamn tease.

“When I’m about to come. I would—I’d let you know when I’m ready. Is that oh…” Bartolomeo’s thumb shifted to press into the soft give of his perineum with each inward stroke and Cavendish finished with a strained gasp. “—okay?”

Bartolomeo nodded. “Whatever ya need from me, sweetheart.”

An interior warmth added to the hot flush of Cavendish’s chest. “Give me a safe word,” he insisted. “In case you, _ah_ , change your mind.”

“Sunflower. What’s yours?”

“Marionette.”

Barto nodded in acknowledgement before sliding his free hand along Cavendish’s hip and across his abdomen to settle on his chest. Delicate lace scraped between the rough pads of Bartolomeo’s fingers and Cavendish’s nipple, drawing a low groan from the older man.

“You’re so good. So good for me, baby,” Bartolomeo’s voice was a reverent murmur against skin so flushed he could feel its warmth beneath his lips. “Sound so hot moaning for me. Look so fuckin’ sexy spread out like this. You’re so…” Bartolomeo huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh against Cavendish’s hipbone, nose tilting to rub against his length. “God, even your cock is pretty, Cav.” His tongue flicked out, tasting, teasing, then retracting so he could finish his thought. “You’re fuckin’ _divine_.”

Cavendish felt like he was falling apart, and he never _ever_ wanted it to end. With Bartolomeo mouthing sloppily at his dick, one hand three fingers deep in his ass and the other tweaking his nipple to a sensitive, eager peak, he was teetering so close to the edge, blissfully unaware of anything but what the other man was doing to him, the way he was _praising_ him. 

“B-Barto, _Bartolomeo_ ,” Cavendish stammered helplessly. “Just fuck me. I want—want to feel you.”

Bartolomeo’s head raised just enough to meet Cavendish’s eyes. “Tempting, but no. Wanna watch ya come first. We both know you’re close.”

He dipped back down again, lips latching firmly to the flushed, sensitive head of Cavendish’s cock as he curled his fingers experimentally. After a few searching prods, Cavendish wailed, bucking his hips hard against Bartolomeo’s jaw. Bartolomeo grinned with savage satisfaction, pressing his fingers firmly on that spot from both sides, over and over until Cavendish’s throat was raw and every muscle in his body felt wound as tight as it could get. 

His toes curled, an intense current of pleasure pulsing through his body, sparking at his fingertips and the base of his spine. It was simultaneously too much and not nearly enough. 

Cavendish reached out, fingers curling around Bartolomeo’s free wrist. He sent Bartolomeo a searching look, asking for permission, and when Bartolomeo nodded, Cavendish settled the large, strong hand in his grip at his throat, just beneath the line of his jaw. 

The maddening suction of Bartolomeo’s lips didn’t falter, the wet squelching of his fingers didn’t abate. Cavendish pressed against the hand on his throat, urging Bartolomeo’s fingers to tighten and squeeze until he could feel the rapid thrum of his pulse. 

The sensation focused the pleasure, amplified it, and when Bartolomeo squeezed just enough to make his breath hitch, Cavendish saw white.

“That’s it. _Fuck_ , lemme see ya, Cav. Show me how I make you feel.”

He rode the heady high of his orgasm, spasming helplessly as his stomach and chest were splattered with cum. When he felt like he could breathe again, Cavendish gulped air in through his open mouth, wide eyes snapping open to watch as Bartolomeo shamelessly licked the semen from the erratically clenching muscles of his abdomen. 

“In case you were wonderin’,” He looked up and Cavendish shuddered at the sight of his slick lips and glistening chin. “You taste as good as ya look.”

A weak whimper fell from Cavendish’s lips and he closed his eyes, trying to clear the haze from the edges of his vision.

Bartolomeo slowly withdrew his fingers, holding onto Cavendish’s waist as he kissed methodically across every inch of the older man’s exposed skin. 

Cavendish heard him murmuring between every press of his lips. “Beautiful. Gorgeous. _Fuck_. So perfect.” His head was spinning, limbs jerking fitfully at the sound of Bartolomeo’s whispered devotion.

“Take me to bed.”

Bartolomeo looked up, admiring the sight of Cavendish sated but still so needy. He moved to stand, bracing hastily against the back of the couch when the room swirled. Fuck, he was so hard it _ached_.

Before Cavendish could try to rise, Bartolomeo lifted him up, hefting him effortlessly over his shoulder. Cavendish cried out hoarsely, the casual display of strength making his oversensitive cock twitch with renewed interest.

“Put me down, you animal!” he protested, but the plea sounded weak to his own ears. 

“There’s no way you can walk right now, Cavendish.” 

The smug satisfaction in Bartolomeo’s tone raised a haughty flush to Cavendish’s cheeks. 

“Where am I goin’?”

“Upstairs,” Cavendish conceded. “First door on the left.”

Bartolomeo shouldered it open and then dumped Cavendish unceremoniously across the mattress as he looked around the room. 

The first thing that caught his eye was the three-panel, floor to ceiling mirror on one wall, parallel to the bed. He looked toward Cavendish with a smirk. 

“Kinky son of a bitch, ain’tcha?”

Cavendish huffed irritably, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“ _This_ isn’t why I had that put up. What kind of perverted narcissist do you take me for?”

“The kind that likes to watch himself get fucked. Thought that was pretty clear.”

Bartolomeo brought his hand to the button of his trousers. Cavendish’s eyes greedily followed the descent of his zipper as he responded. 

“I haven’t brought anyone home with me for years. Long before it was installed. I don’t like fans or strangers knowing where I live.”

“Sure.” Bartolomeo’s pants fell to his ankles and he stepped out of them. “But you’ve jacked it in front of it, yeah?”

Cavendish’s blush was telling.

“That’s what I thought.”

Bartolomeo shucked his boxers down off of his legs and it was Cavendish’s turn to do the teasing, one eyebrow lifting dubiously. 

“Brunet huh?”

Bartolomeo shook his head without missing a beat. “Nah, I’ve got naturally green hair, I just dye my pubes brown.”

In spite of himself, Cavendish snorted a rough laugh and Bartolomeo grinned at the sound of it.

Joining Cavendish on the bed, Bartolomeo straddled his thighs and played his fingers along the top of his lingerie. 

“Hot as this looks on you, I think I want you out of it.”

He started to peel it away, freeing Cavendish’s arms and then separating the darkened, sticky fabric from his damp chest. When he reached Cavendish’s hips he paused, swearing softly. 

“Damn your ass looks incredible in this, babe.” 

Bartolomeo started to lower himself back down and before Cavendish could argue, he was back between his thighs, tongue working against the thin mesh of his already soaked panties like his life depended on it.

“Fuckin’ hell, Cavendish, you taste so damn good.”

“Oh, fuck, come on, Barto. _God,_ ” Cavendish pleaded, mindless and breathless. His hole quivered beneath the onslaught, muscles clenching desperately in a desire to be filled with something much bigger than Bartolomeo’s fingers or tongue. “I need you inside me, I can’t take it anymore.”

Bartolomeo let Cavendish’s hand lead him away, but his eyes remained tethered to the slick shine of his spit on the other man’s pale skin.

“If I could have it my way, I’d just stay down there and watch ya come over and over again for the rest of my life.”

“Mmm.” Cavendish looked up at Bartolomeo through half-lidded eyes. “That would kill me.”

“Not a bad way to go.”

Cavendish shrugged and shimmied his legs out of the bodysuit before tossing it to the floor. “There’s another bottle of lube in the top drawer of my dresser if you left the other downstairs. And condoms, if you want one.”

Bartolomeo gave him a steady look. “I guess I probably should’ve asked before I stuck my tongue up your asshole, but, do I need one?”

Cavendish shrugged again. “It’s your decision. I’m always very insistent on using protection and foreplay for hook-ups is quite a bit less…intimate. You’re the exception. So, no,” He gestured across the room. “I’m clean. I got the results back this morning. Paperwork’s on the desk if you want to look at it. But if you know you’re good too and you want my input, I’d rather you went without. I’d like to feel you better.”

“Alright. I’m good, and I trust you.” Barto stood and started moving toward the dresser. “But you should say whatcha really mean.”

“Hmm?”

“‘Feel me better,’” he echoed. “We both know what you’re thinkin’ and I wanna hear ya say it.”

Cavendish stretched luxuriously across the bed, drawing Bartolomeo’s gaze along the lean, taut muscles of his legs and up toward the fingers tangled playfully in his outspread hair. His mouth held a knowing grin as he replied, tongue sweeping out to soothe the bite-swollen flush of his bottom lip.

“I want you to fill my ass with your cum, Bartolomeo.”

_“Fuck.”_

Bartolomeo yanked open the drawer, but what he saw inside stopped him short. He found the lube easily enough, tucked amongst a wide assortment of toys. Some, he recognized, but there were others he couldn’t even begin to imagine a use for. 

“You sure you’ve never done any cam work?”

Cavendish snorted, a sound contradictory to his elegant pose. “Don’t you think all your searches for ‘bratty blond twink’ would’ve turned me up if I had?”

Bartolomeo laughed loudly and grabbed the bottle of lube before moving to stand at the foot of the bed. “Alright. Ya got me there. But,” His voice dropped to a teasing rumble. “You’re thirty now, pretty boy. I think your twink days are behind you.”

Cavendish’s lips turned down into a pout and the sight only prolonged Bartolomeo’s amusement. 

It wasn’t until he heard the snap of the lube being opened that Cavendish perked up again, lifting himself onto his elbows to watch.

Bartolomeo slowly pumped his slick fist along his cock, coating it liberally as Cavendish’s eyes followed the movement. It was enough of a relief to get any sort of friction that Bartolomeo felt his knees start to buckle and he withdrew his hand to brace against the bed. When the tremor passed, he grabbed Cavendish’s ankles, earning a yelp as he dragged the smaller man bodily toward the edge of the bed. When his ass was at the edge, Bartolomeo lifted Cavendish’s long legs to lie flat against his chest, ankles resting against his shoulders. 

Cavendish could feel the insistent press of Bartolomeo’s erection at his entrance, making his own cock begin to stir feebly once more. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you’re sexy.” Bartolomeo lifted an absent hand to pinch at his arm, wincing as his head shook with something that was almost disbelief. “This is a damn good view.”

Unable to help himself, Cavendish turned his head toward their reflection on the wall. Bartolomeo was right. They looked good together. Cavendish looked unashamedly lewd, arching into Bartolomeo’s hold, flushed skin glistening with sweat and spit and cum. Bartolomeo had his hands resting on the curve of Cavendish’s hips, muscles bunched with tension as he held himself still. Barto’s dark, glassy eyes met Cavendish’s in the mirror and he watched as the larger man trembled.

“I want to watch you push in.”

Bartolomeo nodded, but couldn’t help a final, teasing jab. “Thought ya said ya weren’t kinky.”

Cavendish watched as Bartolomeo lined himself up, forcing his muscles to relax as the head of Bartolomeo’s cock stretched his rim. When it slipped past, he sagged back down against the mattress, eyes glued to their reflection, taking Bartolomeo in inch by inch until his hips were flush with Cavendish’s ass. 

“That isn’t— _fuck_ —what I— _mmm_ —said.” Cavendish rolled his head back so he was looking up at Bartolomeo. His jaw was clenched tight and Cavendish could feel the shaking of his limbs through his own body. 

“Can I move?”

Cavendish gave an experimental roll of his hips and when they moaned in unison, he nodded. 

“Yes, please do.”

Bartolomeo was able to keep a steady, even pace for two strokes and even that seemed like a miracle considering he felt like he’d been hard for an eternity. One throb from his aching and under-stimulated cock and he jerked forward, pounding into the tight, hot squeeze of Cavendish’s walls. 

“Oh, shit.” Cavendish sounded startled, a forceful grunt separating the words.

He was still propped up onto his elbows and he watched as Bartolomeo’s muscles rippled with the movement of his hips. There was already sweat beading at his hairline, loosening the hold of the gel that shaped his mohawk and causing a few unruly locks to curl across his forehead. His eyes were hazy and unfocused, flitting listlessly across every part of Cavendish’s exposed body, the soft shine of his septum ring fogging with every harsh breath forced through his flared nostrils. 

Cavendish knew every standard of beauty, strived constantly to fit them all to a t, and knew Bartolomeo couldn’t give a shit about any of it. Still, all he could think about as he watched Bartolomeo fuck him into the mattress was that he was absolutely, stunningly _gorgeous_.

Every time Cavendish chanced a glance toward the mirror and caught sight of the two of them joined together his cock twitched, pulsed, _throbbed_. He fell back flat onto the bed and dropped a hand to his implausibly growing erection, still sensitive enough to send a twinge of discomfort through his gut before accepting the stimulating touch. It was embarrassing how enthusiastically it jumped against his palm, how tight the pleasure was already coiling before the semen on his chest had even had the chance to dry.

Bartolomeo cursed softly when Cavendish took himself in hand, pushing into him faster, harder. His eyes raked over Cavendish’s prone form as he slowly counted to ten in his mind, then back to one. If he lost concentration for long enough to miss even one number he would come in an instant, and he wasn’t nearly ready to stop feeling the way Cavendish clenched around him. 

Cavendish quirked an eyebrow at Bartolomeo’s focused expression and he offered a weak, shaky smile. “You feel way too damn good. I’m not gonna last long.” Hitching one knee up onto the mattress to ease the angle, he shifted Cavendish’s legs down to wrap around his chest and closed the distance between them to place a few distracted kisses against his shoulders.

Cavendish’s free hand stretched out, hooking around Bartolomeo’s neck to draw him in until their foreheads were touching and their lips brushed softly as he spoke. “How good?”

“Really—really fuckin’ good,” Bartolomeo stammered, enraptured by the dark, pleased haze of Cavendish’s eyes. “You’re so tight, Cavendish, and so _hot_.”

A low purr rumbled from Cavendish’s throat and he shifted his hips, forcing a gasp through Bartolomeo’s parted lips as he slipped in deeper. “Do you know how lucky you are that you get to fuck me, Barto?”

“V-very?” He didn’t know if it was a rhetorical question, but Cavendish was looking at him as if he expected something in particular, and damn if he wasn’t going to try and give him whatever it was he was looking for.

“Mmhm.” Cavendish’s hand moved steadily between the slick press of their bodies, drawing out panting breaths that Bartolomeo stole eagerly into his own aching lungs. “You’re so very lucky that you get to fuck someone as beautiful as me, Bartolomeo. You won’t forget that, will you?”

Bartolomeo gave a fervent shake of his head, infinitely more willing to indulge Cavendish’s vanity when he was balls-deep in his ass. 

“I won’t,” he promised. “Won’t ever forget how lucky I am that you let me fuck your pretty, eager little hole. _Fuck_ , Cav, ya just keep sucking me back in, it’s drivin’ me crazy. You look _so goddamn hot_ when I’m inside you.”

Cavendish let out an appreciative moan, his hand tightening its grip as Bartolomeo left bruising fingerprints against his thighs. With his free hand, he reached toward the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and, meeting Bartolomeo’s eyes, tapped two fingers against it. Barto moved immediately, sliding his hands down and under Cavendish’s shoulder blades to tilt him up toward his waiting lips, getting the soft patch of skin sloppy and wet before he first set his teeth against it. It started as a graze, just enough pressure to feel the sharp points of his canines before they sank in, earning a hoarse cry into the mess of Bartolomeo’s hair. 

“Yes, oh, Bartolomeo _please…_ ”

Bartolomeo heard that word, understood its implications, but he was sure that Cavendish had never begged for anything in his life, and he wasn’t starting now. It was a command: a breathy, desperate demand, and Bartolomeo was all too happy to obey.

After delivering a final kiss to the angry, red mark at Cavendish’s throat, Bartolomeo straightened back up and pulled Cavendish toward him, extending his legs again. 

Cavendish’s eyes were barely open, heavy-lidded slits that didn’t stray from Bartolomeo’s gaze.

“You keep talkin’ like that you’re gonna make me come, baby.”

The exhale that answered was shaky, out of rhythm with the steady pumping of his fist. _“Yes.”_

Cavendish couldn’t ever remember feeling quite so deliciously _full_ , so out of his mind with pleasure that it felt like his whole being had been reduced to the piercing ache of anticipation. Usually, he’d be thinking through his upcoming schedule, eyes fixed unseeing on the floor or ceiling of some obscenely expensive hotel room. An orgasm was an orgasm, albeit better with another human than something synthetic, or so he’d thought. But if this was how it felt to get fucked by someone he actually gave a damn about, then he was sorry he hadn’t done it sooner. Or maybe Bartolomeo was just that good.

Once situated, Bartolomeo began to move again, pulling almost all the way back before bottoming out again, rocking Cavendish’s body forward and then yanking him back by his hips. The dual stimulation of his fist and Bartolomeo’s cock had Cavendish’s legs jerking after a few strokes, his whole body sporadically tensing and relaxing in anticipation. 

When a furrow of frustration wrinkled Cavendish’s brow, Bartolomeo took that as his cue. He shifted his angle, slowing his pace just enough to offer Cavendish a few probing thrusts. The relief that flickered across his face urged Bartolomeo on, and on the third try he ripped a sharp cry from Cavendish’s throat. 

“Oh, God. Oh, _fuck, Barto **yes**_. Right there. Just like that.”

Bartolomeo continued, rubbing against the sensitive gland with each rough stroke, drawing out sounds from the man below him that only grew louder and higher in pitch. 

“Fuck, Cav,” Bartolomeo groaned. He tried his best not to slow or falter, even though he knew the pace Cavendish was demanding would send him over the edge before he really wanted this to be over. “You’re so—so _loud_. I never— _shit_ —never thought it’d be so easy to make ya scream for me. It’s sexy as hell.”

Cavendish didn’t respond, didn’t even really hear anything other than the laudatory tone of the words, too lost in the steadily cresting waves of pleasure. He twisted his fingers in the sheets so tightly they pulled away from the edges of the mattress, his back arched and eyes screwed shut. A broken sob altered the cadence of his cries, spilling tears across his cheeks. 

The sight made Bartolomeo hesitate, just briefly, and at the stutter in his movement, Cavendish’s eyes snapped back open. They were wide and wet and desperate. 

“Bartolomeo,” The tears stuck to his eyelashes rolled free as he cried out. _“Don’t you dare fucking stop!”_

Well, no matter how much he loved giving Cavendish shit and pushing back against him at any opportunity, there was no way in hell Bartolomeo was going to refuse an order like _that_.

It only took another few firm thrusts before Cavendish’s whole body jolted. He arched impossibly higher, heels pressing into Bartolomeo’s shoulders hard enough to leave bruises. Something that Barto thought might be a badly garbled version of his name fell from Cavendish’s lips as his chest and throat caught the full force of his release and the sight of his slender, craned neck painted in cum was enough to do Bartolomeo in.

The force of his own orgasm hit like a fucking truck, knocking the breath out of him as he fell forward onto his elbows. Cavendish folded weakly beneath him, drawing Bartolomeo closer, panting harshly against his ear, trembling as he was filled with a pulsing rush of heat.

“Fuck, Cavendish. Oh, God. _Fuck._ I’m sorry. _Fuckin’ shit._ ”

Bartolomeo didn’t even realize he was still babbling incoherently until the sound of Cavendish’s light laughter reached his ears. Forcing his eyes open, he looked down to see the other man regarding him with a sleepy, affectionate expression. 

“Did you just apologize to me for coming?”

Bartolomeo shrugged, leaning his weight down on Cavendish and earning a breathless huff. 

“You’re too damn heavy for this, Rooster.” One hand made a lazy pass through the wilting crest of his hair. “And you should be glad I’m so flexible or you’d be breaking me in half right now.”

Bartolomeo grunted noncommittally and buried his face in the crook of Cavendish’s neck. The smaller man allowed him to stay there for a few minutes before starting to squirm insistently. 

“Seriously, Barto, get off, you’re suffocating me.”

“Pretty sure I’m already dead and in heaven,” Bartolomeo mumbled. “Gonna bring ya along with me.”

Rolling his eyes, Cavendish shoved Bartolomeo over to lay next to him and stretched his legs back out over the edge of the bed with a sigh. The motion effectively separated them and Cavendish’s gut clenched insistently when he felt the first sluggish trickle of cum from his pleasantly sore ass. Arousing as it was, his overworked cock— _thankfully_ —didn’t get the memo.

Reaching out to rummage around in the still open drawer of his dresser, Cavendish grabbed a package of wet wipes and half-heartedly swept one along the length of his torso before crumpling it and tossing it over the edge of the bed.

“Much better.”

Closing his eyes contentedly, Cavendish allowed himself to fall into a daze somewhere close to sleep. Before it could fully pull him under, he felt the prickle of a heavy gaze against his skin and keeping his eyes closed, he cocked an eyebrow. 

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Cause you’re beautiful. You look like a goddamn masterpiece all fucked out like this.”

Cavendish offered an appreciative hum, rolling over to press against the warmth of Bartolomeo’s side. A hand moved to play absently with Cavendish’s hair and he smiled. 

“This time I’ll give you the credit. Just don’t let it go to your head.”

Bartolomeo snorted, his fingers brushing Cavendish’s sweat-soaked bangs from his forehead in a gesture at odds with his belligerent tone. “Says you, Mr. Ego-the-size-of-a-fuckin’-whale.”

“There are plenty of things bigger than whales, Barto. My ego notwithstanding.”

“Nuh uh,” Bartolomeo insisted. “Not this whale. This one’s a hundred stories tall and it knows how much of a bratty little asshole you are.”

Cavendish’s eyes fluttered open, hooded and coquettish. “I thought you liked my bratty little asshole.”

“Well, it looks good dripping with my cum,” Barto conceded, listening to the harsh suck of Cavendish’s breath as it hissed through his teeth. “But I think it’s too soon to say for sure.”

“Is that so?” The words rolled from Cavendish’s tongue, playful and taunting as they slipped between Bartolomeo’s lips and brushed over the roof of his mouth. 

When they broke apart, Cavendish settled back down, head on Bartolomeo’s shoulder and finger tracing absent patterns across his chest. Bartolomeo watched him in silence for a moment before asking the question he’d been wondering for what felt like the thousandth time in the past few days.

“Could we have been doin’ this for twelve years?”

Cavendish considered it, and not for the first time. But even if their attraction had been mutual as teenagers, the most they would have been able to manage would’ve been quick, sloppy trysts in a cramped backseat. It would have been awkward and messy and unsatisfying, in the way any first few attempts at sex tended to be, and Cavendish couldn’t say he was disappointed that Bartolomeo wasn’t a part of that particular set of memories from his youth.

He shook his head and lifted his chin to meet Bartolomeo’s soft gaze. “Twelve years, no. Three months, yes. Even if anything had happened between us back then, we were kids, we wouldn’t have made it. It’s better this way. Now we’re both experienced and we know what we want and…” He pressed a kiss to Bartolomeo’s jaw. “You’re a lot more attractive now than you were when you were sixteen.”

Bartolomeo chuckled. “Yeah? You too, but I still thought you were hot back then.”

“That’s because _I_ was.” Cavendish jumped when Bartolomeo reached out and pinched his thigh. 

“What is it ya like best then?” Barto asked, genuinely curious. “The tattoos? Piercings? Muscles?” He jokingly flexed and Cavendish momentarily forgot the question.

“Your big dick, actually.”

Bartolomeo snorted. “Okay, well, then you’re right that teenage Barto didn’t have _quite_ as much to show there, but he still would’ve killed to get what he _was_ packin’ blown behind the bleachers by the second most popular senior in school.”

“If teenage Barto wore clean underwear maybe there would’ve been a chance of that.”

Though he was teasing and they both knew it, Bartolomeo’s cheeks flared red. “Alright, _listen_ , Cabbage. I’m outta laundry detergent and haven’t been able to get to the store, and you told me ya wanted to take things _slow_ so I thought I’d just be goin’ home to jack off after whatever ya had planned. This is only sorta my fault.”

“Mmhm.” Barto frowned at Cavendish’s disbelieving hum, and the older man leaned over to kiss the furrow from his brow. 

“If you want to hop in the shower, I’ll go down on you as soon as I can feel my legs again.”

Bartolomeo considered it, thoroughly, before shaking his head. “I’ll take a raincheck. Kinda just wanna chill out.”

Cavendish nodded in agreement, his finger tracing in a steady arc from one side of Bartolomeo’s tattoo to the other. After the second pass, he frowned. “Wait, did you say tattoo _s_?”

Bartolomeo yawned, nodding as Cavendish began to prod searchingly across his exposed skin. Catching his wrist, he tapped Cavendish’s questing fingertips against his chest. “One.” And then drew them up to press against his right cheekbone. “Two.”

Cavendish propped himself up on an elbow, lips turning down into an even deeper frown. “That’s a tattoo?” Despite Bartolomeo’s nod of confirmation, Cavendish licked his thumb and rubbed it across the swooping pair of lines. “I thought it was eyeliner. I thought you just…did that, every day. I mean, this _whole_ time, I thought…Why the hell would you get a tattoo so close to your goddamn eye, Bartolomeo?”

“Cause I was nineteen and I thought it looked cool.”

“And now?”

Bartolomeo’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a lazy grin. “Now I’m twenty-eight and I think it looks cool.”

Rolling his eyes, Cavendish flopped back down and returned his attention to the tattoo that spanned Bartolomeo’s wide chest. 

“When did you get this one?”

“Uh…six years ago, give or take? After I started wrestling and was suddenly gettin’ paid to take my shirt off.”

“Does it mean anything?”

Bartolomeo shrugged. “Nah. Just liked the look of it.”

“Well it’s very…striking,” Cavendish replied, fingertips still gliding along its curve. He leaned forward, the tip of his tongue catching Bartolomeo’s septum ring and drawing it into his mouth along with his upper lip. “As is this.”

Bartolomeo’s gaze was warm when Cavendish pulled away. “Keep goin’. I like you bein’ the one to appreciate me for a change.”

Cavendish cocked a teasing eyebrow. “I can’t help being so worthy of appreciation can I?”

“You can help bein’ a little shit about it.”

Bartolomeo leaned down to kiss the pout from Cavendish’s lips, feeling them curve into a smile beneath his own. 

“Alright. I quite like the idiotic way you style your hair, and how senselessly clashing your fashion sense is, and I don’t know why the fuck I should want to _lick_ your teeth, but I _do_.”

Laughing, Bartolomeo curled his upper lip. “Knock yourself out.”

Cavendish leaned in, sliding his tongue slowly down one of Bartolomeo’s sharp canines, teasing along the curved tip before moving up the other and urging his mouth open for deeper exploration. When he moved back, Bartolomeo looked a little dazed and he exhaled shakily. 

“That was hot. You should do it again the next time we fuck.”

Cavendish swatted at him half-heartedly, but couldn’t deny being a little turned on by the oddly erotic sensation. Laying his head back down against Bartolomeo’s chest, he closed his eyes and listened to the steady beating of his heart. An arm curled around his waist and he let himself get pulled into a lull of warmth and comfort. 

After rousing from a brief doze that would have been considerably more comfortable just a few feet further up on the bed, Cavendish sat up and stretched, noting with satisfaction the way Bartolomeo’s eyes followed the movement. 

“You don’t have to join me if you don’t want to, but I’m going to get in the shower. I got the messier part of the arrangement this time around.”

Bartolomeo’s gaze fell to sweep across the tacky remains of drying cum from Cavendish’s neck to his stomach. “Probably shouldn’t. If I join you, there ain’t no way in hell I can keep my hands off of ya, and I think another round might kill ya right now, old man.”

Cavendish huffed and abandoned Bartolomeo for the adjoining bathroom. “You’re only two years younger than me, Rooster.”

“Yeah, and don’tcha forget it, Cabbage.” Barto followed him in a moment later, grabbing a washcloth to clean himself up with as Cavendish waited for the water to warm up. “Hey, I kinda wanna smoke. You still got any of the shit I gave ya?”

After a brief moment of consideration, Cavendish nodded. “It should be in my top right desk drawer. There’s a balcony on this floor, off the room at the end of the hall.”

Bartolomeo nodded his thanks and departed. Cavendish found him there ten minutes later, elbows on the balcony railing as he stared absently into the distance. 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Bartolomeo shifted his gaze, snorting softly at the sight of a still damp Cavendish reclined against the glass door in a monogrammed silk robe. 

“Just thinkin’ about whatcha said earlier. I’ve thought about you a lot these past twelve years, but I’m glad this is how it happened. Glad we’re friends now.” He exhaled thoughtfully, watching the smoke curl upward. “I always thought if I ever saw you again I’d be happy to just get one night with you. If I’m bein’ honest, I’m a little overwhelmed knowin’ I can just kiss ya whenever I want.”

Cavendish wrapped his arms around Bartolomeo’s chest and pressed his cheek to the warm expanse of his back. “Are you always such a softie when you’re high?” He held out a hand and took a hit as the younger man laughed. 

“Yeah, I just usually think all this shit instead of sayin’ it out loud. Don’t smoke much around you anyway.”

“I don’t mind if you do,” Cavendish replied, passing the joint back over. “In case you thought I did.”

Bartolomeo shrugged, letting his free hand fall to twine together with the fingers splayed across his chest. “Maybe there’s a part of me that’s still scared you’ll snitch on me and get me suspended.”

“Mm. Sorry about that. I wanted to be valedictorian and sucking up to the administrators by catching delinquents like you was the best way to do it.”

“Did you even give a good speech?”

“I’m sure I did, but I can’t remember any of it now.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes, both lost in their own thoughts. It was Bartolomeo who spoke again first.

“If you’re up for it, you should smoke with me some day we don’t have any responsibilities and can spend the whole day in bed. Fuckin’ when you’re high can be…pretty goddamn great.”

“Speaking from experience?”

Bartolomeo nodded and Cavendish squashed down the unreasonable jealousy that flared stubbornly to life in his chest. 

“If it’s been good before, it’ll be amazing with you though, Cav.”

It was stupid how eagerly his heart fluttered at the sentiment. When Bartolomeo turned his hazy gaze toward him, lips quirking into a smile, Cavendish felt a little bit like melting.

“Alright. I’ll try anything once.”

Bartolomeo savored the last puff of smoke, blowing it out in a long, slow breath before turning and pulling Cavendish up against his chest. 

“Anything?”

Cavendish faltered. “Well. Maybe not _anything_.”

A low laugh shook Bartolomeo’s chest. “Alright. We can sit down later and talk about all of the things we wanna do to each other. I’ll admit, I have a recurring fantasy about fuckin’ you in the middle of the ring.”

A flare of heat answered the sentiment, unexpected and _demanding_. “With or without the crowd?”

Barto cocked his head. “Depends on my mood.”

After following that train of thought for longer than was probably wise, Cavendish shook his head to clear it. “On that note, I’m going to go pass out. If you keep talking you’re just going to turn me on again and I really can’t take any more tonight.”

Bartolomeo looked rather proud of himself, but his expression shifted just a second later. “Do you, uh…do ya want me to get a ride home?”

Cavendish shook his head slowly. “Unless you don’t want to, I’d like you to stay the night. I’m not going to run you out or regret any of this in the morning. I admit, I’m in uncharted territory, but, I chose this. I chose you, and I stand by that.”

Bartolomeo felt his stomach flip, a little uncertain in the face of Cavendish’s raw, honest affection. “Well,” he deflected. “Fair warning, I’m an aggressive cuddler. My ex hated it, but she’d always just shove me back to my side of the bed and it never woke me up, so, do whatcha gotta do. Ya won’t hurt my feelings.”

Cavendish smiled. “I’ll keep it in mind, but, I have a feeling it won’t upset me much.”

Bartolomeo grinned, leaning down toward Cavendish and pressing his mouth to the upward quirk of his lips. 

“Now who’s the softie?”

Cavendish turned away to hide the flush of his cheeks and was halfway through the sliding door when Bartolomeo spoke up again. 

“Cavendish, I…”

He met the soft, questioning blue of his eyes and, once again, was taken aback by just how beautiful Cavendish was. Something thoughtless and potentially insincere and definitely premature almost tripped off of his tongue, and judging by the way Cavendish’s eyes widened, the words were still written clearly in his expression. 

“I know,” Cavendish answered. He closed the distance between them, pulling Bartolomeo into a kiss as tender as it was fervent. When he replied, Bartolomeo could taste the words in his mouth, sweet and clear. “Me too, Barto. Me too.”


	3. Committing

When Cavendish woke to the unfamiliar weight of another person against his side, his first instinct was to leap from the bed and grab anything he could use to defend himself. His eyes snapped open and when he saw Bartolomeo’s face a few inches away from his own he was forcefully reoriented and his heartbeat began to slow. 

Bartolomeo was still sound asleep, breathing soft, snuffling snores into the crook of Cavendish’s neck where his head was buried. He didn’t so much as stir as Cavendish shifted beside him. 

“Barto?”

The even rhythm of his breath caught at the sound of Cavendish’s voice, but he maintained his position, and a few seconds later, the snoring recommenced. 

Pulling away slightly, Cavendish took the opportunity to study Bartolomeo’s features. He looked much softer in his sleep, with his square jaw slack and his eyes devoid of their usual thick liner. As much as he enjoyed teasing Bartolomeo about how little effort he seemed to put into his appearance, he really was quite handsome. Cavendish just didn’t know how to genuinely express that about another person who, against all odds, he had grown quite fond of. Even if he _was_ currently drooling on his satin sheets. 

An unconscious grumble broke him from his train of thought and, smiling, Cavendish brushed his fingers through the mess of Bartolomeo’s hair. As his nails scratched gently along his scalp, the arm around Cavendish’s waist tightened its grip and Bartolomeo hummed contentedly at the touch.

“That you, Cabbage?” he murmured drowsily.

Cavendish cocked an eyebrow, twirling a lock of green hair around his finger. “Were you expecting to be in someone else’s bed?”

Bartolomeo’s head shook, still firmly tucked. “Thought it might’ve been a dream.”

“You’re sweet,” Cavendish cooed fondly. “But I’m really here, I promise. And last night _definitely_ happened.”

Bartolomeo grunted. “Good.” He shifted just slightly, his lips finding the mark he’d left against Cavendish’s neck and sucking the raw, sensitive flesh to a deeper flush before sinking his teeth back into it. Cavendish let out a strangled groan. 

Encouraged by the sound, Bartolomeo rolled his hips pointedly against Cavendish’s thigh and splayed a hand across his stomach, pinky pressing teasingly into the dip of his navel and earning a shaky breath.

“Wanna fuck you again.”

Cavendish laughed, soft and affectionate, if not a little breathless, then tugged on Bartolomeo’s hair until he raised his head. 

“Not even a good morning first?”

Bartolomeo’s lips stretched into a grin, gaze still clouded with sleep.

“Mornin’.” He swooped in to press a chaste kiss on Cavendish’s cheek. “Would really love to shove my cock up your ass.”

Cavendish rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help uttering a gasp when Bartolomeo’s hand slipped lower.

“You really don’t understand romance at all, do you?”

“Oh, c’mon, I gotcha flowers last night and ate your ass,” Bartolomeo complained. “What more do you want from me?”

Cavendish huffed, trying to sound annoyed and not quite managing it. “You know, Bartolomeo, I’m supposed to start off my day with a half hour of yoga, doctor’s orders. I find it quite helpful for my anxiety.”

“Mm.” Bartolomeo grinned down at him. “Won’t hear me complainin’ if ya wanna get bendy.”

Any reply Cavendish might’ve intended was forgotten as Bartolomeo sucked a finger sloppily between his lips and began to rub it in slow, teasing circles against his hole. 

Arching into the sensation, Cavendish sighed. “Alright, Barto, but it has to be quick. We slept late and I have a few appointments today.”

Bartolomeo nodded. “I can do quick. Toss me the lube.”

He withdrew his finger to thoroughly coat the others and then press two in past the yielding ring of muscle, sinking them down to the base as Cavendish jolted sharply.

“Fuck!”

“I’m gettin’ there, sweetheart,” Bartolomeo rumbled. “But I don’t think you’re ready yet.”

“That’s for me to decide, not you,” Cavendish countered. “Fingers out, dick in.”

Shrugging, Bartolomeo rolled over toward the middle of the bed and patted his thigh. “Hop on.”

Cavendish followed, squirting lube into his hand and giving Bartolomeo a few quick strokes. When he was fully hard and sufficiently slick, Cavendish settled down onto his cock, earning a husky groan as he immediately rocked back upwards and set a harsh pace.

Bartolomeo’s eyes trailed from the sleep-mussed tangle of Cavendish’s hair to the smooth roll of his hips, appreciative and very aroused. 

“I was right.”

“About?”

Barto spit into his palm and began to lazily stroke Cavendish’s erection in an alternating rhythm to the rise and fall of his thighs. 

“How good you’d look ridin’ me.”

“Ah.” It was a breathless little sound, but Bartolomeo could see how pleased Cavendish was by the admission. The older man raised a hand almost absently to gather his long hair away from his neck and Bartolomeo swore at the effortless grace of the movement. 

“How the fuck did I bag a hottie like you?”

“Muscles,” Cavendish panted, bringing his free hand up to unabashedly fondle Bartolomeo’s abs. “It was the muscles.”

Bartolomeo offered a sound of mock contemplation. He jerked his hips upward, ripping a startled cry from Cavendish’s parted lips. “Thought it was my big dick.”

“Both.” Cavendish amended conclusively. “Definitely both.” His hand moved up to grab a handful of Bartolomeo’s defined pectorals and he brushed his thumb teasingly across one already peaked nipple. “I’m not entirely sure if I’ve told you this already, but I think your chest is remarkably attractive.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhm,” Cavendish confirmed. “One of these days I’m going to sit on it and fuck myself between your pecs.” He squeezed the malleable muscles together for effect, dragging his thumb through the shallow valley that formed between them. “Paint your tattoo with my cum.”

The sharp ridges of Bartolomeo’s brow rose all the way to his disheveled hairline. “Oh? Damn. All—” He swallowed, thick and audible. Cavendish could feel his cock throb approvingly deep inside of him. “Alright, Cav. I think I’d like that.”

“I think you would too,” Cavendish said, amused. His ridiculously white teeth bared in a provocative grin. “Never met a pair of tits I didn’t like, but…damn, Barto. Yours might take the cake.”

Closing his hands around Cavendish’s waist, Bartolomeo lifted himself up into a sitting position against the headboard. Cavendish fell forward into him, rhythm stuttering at the change, and he moaned when Bartolomeo nipped at the edge of his jaw.

“Not sure about that, Cavendish. You’re the one who’s so fuckin’ responsive.”

He lifted his free hand to tweak one of Cavendish’s nipples, proving his point when Cavendish let out a soft sound of approval. As Cavendish leaned back to ease the angle of his movements, Bartolomeo drew up his knees, planting his feet flat onto the mattress. With the added leverage he thrust upward, matching Cavendish’s pace and moving his other hand faster between them. 

After licking his fingers and rolling them over Cavendish’s other nipple to his broken noises of encouragement, Bartolomeo leaned down and kissed him, swallowing a deep, enthusiastic groan. As Bartolomeo sucked Cavendish’s tongue harshly between his lips, Cavendish’s hips bucked erratically into Bartolomeo’s fist, chasing the surging rush of pleasure building low in his gut. 

After a moment, Bartolomeo pulled back. His fingers pressed into the small of Cavendish’s back, flexing intermittently against the damp skin. “Hey, Cav?”

“Mm?”

A light dusting of color rose to Bartolomeo’s face. Cavendish, enjoying his front row seat, watched as it spread endearingly across the bridge of his nose.

“Will—could you…uh…bite my ears?”

Cavendish let out a breathy laugh, earning a frown from Bartolomeo that was swiftly broken apart by gasping lips as Cavendish closed his mouth around Barto’s earlobe. 

His tongue slipped across and inside Bartolomeo’s gold earring, teeth catching at the spot where it was fastened and then dragging downward until Bartolomeo all but melted against him. Dropping his head, Barto mouthed at the dully throbbing mark on Cavendish’s neck, the rhythm of his hips growing jerky with each repeated nip to the shell of his ear. 

“God, they’re so sensitive,” Cavendish mused, whispering into the soft hollow behind Bartolomeo’s ear. He wasn’t expecting the full-body shudder that wracked Bartolomeo’s frame, or the absolutely filthy moan that he let out against his slick skin. 

“Uh huh.”

“Are you going to come with my teeth on your ear, Bartolomeo?”

Past the point of coherent speech, Barto nodded frantically into the curve of Cavendish’s neck. His hands held onto Cavendish’s hips like a vice, yanking him back down onto his dick every time he rose up off of it, creating a harsh, fast rhythm that was guaranteed to hurtle them both headlong toward their impending orgasms.

Bartolomeo reached the edge first, swearing brokenly at the sharp pinch of Cavendish’s teeth as he spilled into the inviting warmth of his lover’s body. The smaller man shuddered, the sensation of being filled pushing him closer to his own end. 

Easing back, Cavendish closed his hand around Bartolomeo’s to urge its continued movement and with a few more desperate jerks of their joined hands, Cavendish came with a soft cry, Bartolomeo’s palm catching the wet surge of his release. 

Sweaty and panting, they collapsed into an uncomfortably warm embrace. Neither was quite capable of intelligent speech yet, so they let the lazy kisses they exchanged express the sentiment between them. It was Bartolomeo who moved away first, carefully lifting Cavendish and settling him down against the pillows. He met the older man’s questioning gaze with a slight shrug as he tossed a box of tissues onto the bed. 

“Gonna take you up on that shower now. I’m hot and sticky and actually have shit to do today.”

“So you were fine sweating and drooling all over my sheets last night, but _now_ you need a shower?”

Bartolomeo cocked his head. “Nah, you’re right. I can just…” His gaze traveled from the sticky, white mess of his hand to Cavendish’s chest.

The second his arm twitched, Cavendish was flailing out of reach, shrieking protests. 

Bartolomeo laughed and gave up the chase. 

When he stepped back out of the bathroom in a towel, Cavendish was still nestled amongst the pillows, staring dazedly toward the wall. His gaze shifted as Bartolomeo joined him again and they spent a few minutes in a companionable silence before Barto spoke up.

“Did ya know you sleepwalk?”

Cavendish lifted a dubious brow. “I do not.”

“Oh, yeah, ya do. Get chatty too. I woke up at like three cause I was cold and I realized you weren’t in bed anymore. Figured you’d just gone to the bathroom or somethin’ but nah, you were standing over by the mirrors havin’ a full-blown conversation with, yourself, I guess.”

“About what?”

Bartolomeo shrugged. “Not sure. I was still half asleep and you weren’t talkin’ loud enough for me to make it out. But I told you to come back to bed and ya turned around and glared like you wanted to fuckin’ kill me, so I just left you alone. Guess ya made it back eventually.”

“Huh.” Cavendish frowned. “I wonder how often that happens.”

“I’ll start keepin’ a tally.”

For a moment they both silently took in the implication of the statement, but their introspection was disrupted by the faint sound of chiming from downstairs. Bartolomeo looked back at Cavendish.

“That your phone?”

Cavendish blinked a couple times and then tilted his head toward the sound. “I think so.” Sighing, he hefted himself out of bed and headed down to find his previously discarded pants. 

His footsteps returned shortly and when he appeared in the doorway, he was frowning.

The ridge of Bartolomeo’s brow quirked upward. “What’s up?”

“I have six missed calls and a dozen messages from Suleiman, which…doesn’t bode well.”

He opened the first attached picture and then blew out a heavy sigh.

“Well…looks like the cat’s out of the bag.”

Bartolomeo leaned over as Cavendish sat down and tilted his phone. The first picture had captured one of the only two times they had kissed at All Blue without the curtain in place, and the second was a shot of them looking comfortably cozy on Cavendish’s balcony. 

Cavendish knew Suleiman would have already gotten the photographer of the second picture blacklisted for violating the sanctity of the model’s private residence, but the existence of the picture alone was still a bad sign.

“I’m going to call him back.”

Bartolomeo leaned back against the pillows as Cavendish redialed. Suleiman picked up on the second ring.

“Is he with you?”

Cavendish’s brow furrowed. Right to the chase then.

“Yes. And hello to you too.”

“Put me on speaker.”

Cavendish did as he was asked, moving back to snuggle up against Bartolomeo’s side. 

“Okay, go ahead.”

“It’s…Bartolomeo, yes?”

Barto frowned, lifting his arm to rest across Cavendish’s shoulders. “Yeah. What’s up?”

“How public do you both want this?” 

“Uh…”

“Here are your options,” Suleiman continued brusquely, rolling right over Bartolomeo’s vocalized hesitation. “I can tell all interested parties that you hooked up but it’s nothing more, and you can be infinitely more cautious than you have been thus far. Or, I book a shoot for this afternoon, you give an exclusive interview to a source of our choosing, and by the end of the week, you’re public and in the front spot of every newsstand in the world.”

Bartolomeo’s frown deepened. “I have stuff goin’ on today.”

“Reschedule it.”

Cavendish sighed heavily and tilted his chin to look up at Bartolomeo. “It’s up to you. I don’t mind going public. It’s going to change your life more than mine.”

“Well, I want people to know, if that’s what this is about.”

“It isn’t really,” Cavendish explained. “It’s about how much real privacy you get. If we announce to the world that we’re dating, the paparazzi’s going to start following you. And your matches are going to start getting crowds of _my_ fans at the door, because they’re going to assume, or at least hope, that we’re together.”

“If that’s what it takes for every single one of those fans to know it’s me that gets to come home and fuck you, I can live with it.”

Cavendish beamed, leaning up to give Barto a kiss that conveyed just how much he enjoyed that particular sentiment. 

“I’m still here, you know.”

Bartolomeo absently flipped his middle finger toward the sound of Suleiman’s voice. 

“Alright,” Cavendish answered, settling back down again. “Set something up.”

“Good choice. It’s only been a combination of threats, favors, and luck that’s kept the many paparazzi pictures of you two out of the tabloids and I’m tired of covering for you fools. I was having to tell people you were _just friends_ and I’m amazed anyone believed such bullshit.”

Bartolomeo and Cavendish exchanged a glance. 

“Well, I mean—”

Suleiman pressed on, decidedly uninterested. “I started talking this over with Pappag back in October when you left a very promising opportunity for publicity to take your ‘friend’ out for his birthday, so he has a few designs he’s been working on that are finished. Both of you need to get over there so Camie can make the finishing touches. I’ll clear your schedule and set up a shoot and interview for three, but it can’t be any later than that.”

“I really do have plans for today,” Bartolomeo protested in a low grumble. Cavendish rested a placating hand against his thigh. 

“Camie already has Barto’s measurements. He has a few prior obligations, so I’ll go over to Pappag’s alone and then I’ll bring him along for the rest.”

Cavendish lifted an eyebrow and Bartolomeo nodded grudgingly. 

“Fine. Have you ever done a photo shoot, Bartolomeo?”

“Uh…yeah. I was on the cover of some sort of…men’s health magazine a few years ago.”

Cavendish patted a hand against Bartolomeo’s abs, proudly and _very_ fondly.

“So no. Cavendish, prepare him, will you? I’ll meet up with you at Pappag’s and then we’ll go to lunch and go over the interview questions.”

“Alright.”

“Good. I’ll text you when I’m on my way. See you both soon.”

The line disconnected and Cavendish tucked himself deeper into Bartolomeo’s side, enjoying the warmth radiating off of his large frame. 

“Your agent’s kind of a dick.”

“I know. People have been known to call him ‘the beheader’ behind his back. If things don’t go his way, heads start to roll. He’ll warm up to you.” They sat in silence for a moment before Cavendish continued. “What _do_ you have going on today?”

“I told Bellamy I’d train with him for a few hours at the Barto Club.”

“At the _what_?”

Bartolomeo’s gaze shifted downward to meet Cavendish’s surprised expression. “The Barto Club. I own a training gym over on my side of the city. Didn’t I tell you that?”

“You most certainly did not.”

“Mm. Well.” Bartolomeo shrugged. 

“God, you’re…you’re such a dork, Barto.”

He shrugged again. There really wasn’t any use denying it. 

“It’s modeled after the gym where Luffy-senpai trained when he first started boxing. I have one of his old gloves framed too. And signed.”

“Of course it is. _Of course_ you do. Christ.” Cavendish rolled his eyes and half-heartedly shoved Bartolomeo toward the edge of the bed. “Your obsession with that man is astounding. Get out of here so I can start getting ready. I’ll come pick you up at two thirty.”

Pushing back against Cavendish’s weak dismissal, Bartolomeo leaned over and caught his face between his palms, drawing his lips up to meet his own in a slow, sweet kiss. 

“‘Kay. Now I can go.”

Smiling broadly at the flush that overtook Cavendish’s face, Bartolomeo got up and moved toward the hall. Pausing in the doorway, he turned back to meet Cavendish’s gaze, still tinged with annoyance, albeit softened somewhat by Bartolomeo’s open affection. 

“Hey, Cabbage, what if after this is out, your fans decide they like me more than you?”

Cavendish laughed. “Aww, Barto, you’re cute. That’s not going to happen.”

“It could,” Bartolomeo insisted stubbornly. “I’m gonna start drownin’ in fan mail, just you wait.”

“Unlikely. If anything, you’ll start getting _hate_ mail,” Cavendish corrected. “My fans love me. They really, _really_ love me. There are a lot of people out there who want their chance with me and you’re about to get in the way of their dreams.”

Bartolomeo frowned. He hadn’t actually considered that. Gambia was going to have his work cut out for him. 

“Sorry, Barto. Enjoy your last few days of normalcy.” Cavendish shrugged apologetically and blew him one last kiss. “You’re about to get a _lot_ more famous.”

* * *

The ‘few designs’ Pappag had been working on ended up being four separate and fairly elaborate outfits, all of which he insisted be included in the shoot. It ranged from something that looked appropriate for a particularly flashy pirate to what amounted to little more than a schoolgirl uniform. Cavendish was equally worried and excited by the prospect of wearing the latter around Bartolomeo in a room full of people.

He understood that the particular style of fashion he was usually dressed in was a byproduct of the type of feminine ethereal beauty he had been blessed with since his birth, but damn it, Cavendish wanted an even playing field. The mere thought of Bartolomeo’s thick, muscular thighs in a skirt had him feeling indecently hot, and he made a mental note to have a conversation with Camie far out of earshot of both Pappag and Suleiman. 

The young woman was dutifully pinning for minor alterations as Cavendish tried on the last outfit, and when their eyes briefly met in the reflection of the mirror in front of them, she spoke up.

“Pappag said your boyfriend would be coming with you. I was looking forward to meeting him.”

Before Cavendish could reply, Suleiman answered, not even looking up from his phone. “He had ‘prior obligations.’”

Cavendish rolled his eyes. “Christ, Suleiman. He does have a life outside of me, you know. We’ve been dating for…less than a week.”

“Not anymore he doesn’t,” Suleiman answered drily, crossing one leg over the other and peering at Cavendish shrewdly from beneath the brim of his hat. 

Ignoring him, Cavendish looked back toward Camie. “I think you’d like him. I’ll bring him by Takoyaki Eito for dinner soon.”

Camie clapped in delight, circling the model to check for any final adjustments. “Please do! Hachi was just saying it had been a while since he’d seen you.”

“Boy’s too famous for the likes of us now, Camie,” Pappag said, raising a dramatic hand to his forehead. 

“I’ve always been too famous for you,” Cavendish quipped, undressing and handing over the last outfit for alterations at a gesture from Camie. “I only stick around because your assistant is so charming.”

He winked at Camie and she blushed, swatting him playfully on the side as she passed. 

Cavendish had played a starring role in the rise of Pappag’s Criminal fashion line and in return, the designer had offered his services as the model’s personal tailor, in exchange for a hefty but well-deserved extra salary.

Pappag clicked his tongue in disapproval and then moved to stand in front of Cavendish, holding an outfit on a hanger in front of him. 

“Without him here, I can’t know for sure that these won’t need alterations, but what do you think?”

Cavendish squinted, sizing up the clothing and doing his best to imagine what it would look like on Bartolomeo. That proved more distracting than effective and Pappag’s eyes narrowed when a hot flush began to creep along the length of his neck. 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Cavendish deflected. “The last outfit you made for him fit very well.”

“Oh, it did?” Camie beamed. “I’m so glad! Did he like it?”

Cavendish shrugged. “ _I_ liked it.”

“What about…” She blushed and cast a glance toward Pappag and Suleiman before lowering her voice. “The other thing I made for you?”

Two pairs of narrowed eyes flicked in his direction as he grinned.

“Oh, he _definitely_ liked that.”

“I was hoping that dating someone might…mellow you out a bit,” Suleiman commented flatly. “Should’ve known better I suppose.”

Cavendish shrugged unapologetically and finished getting redressed as Pappag began to tuck Bartolomeo’s outfits into garment bags. He took them when they were handed over to him.

“We’ll finish your alterations and have Suleiman pick them up on his way to the shoot. Have your big boy try those on before you head to the studio in case you need to pin anything for the photos. I’m too used to working with your skinny ass.”

At a well-toned six feet even, Cavendish wasn’t a _small_ man, but it was true that designers of high fashion lines didn’t exactly cater to men as large as Bartolomeo. Although, Cavendish would be lying if he said he wouldn’t be pleased to find that Pappag’s outfits were just a _little_ tight on Barto’s beefy frame. 

A snort from Suleiman indicated that his train of thought was a bit more transparent than he had intended, and Cavendish interrupted before his manager could throw any more flack his direction.

“Come on. Lunch, interview, let’s go. I don’t want to be late picking up Barto.”

Suleiman unfolded from his chair, casting a vaguely amused glance down toward Cavendish from his superior height. 

“Whatever you say, boss.”

Much to Cavendish’s dismay, Suleiman admitted that the person who would be conducting their interview was a man named Absalom, who worked for the World Entertainment Journal. He was a creep, to put it lightly, and Cavendish avoided working with him as much as humanly possible. Unfortunately, Suleiman wasn’t willing to push things back so much as an hour, claiming that he didn’t trust the tabloids to honor their contract, and Absalom was the only journalist WEJ had to offer on such short notice. 

Thus, he wasn’t ultimately surprised when the questions Suleiman laid out for him were a little too probing and personal for Cavendish’s tastes. He had had enough ‘tell-alls’ in his career that there wasn’t much he wouldn’t reveal about himself and his personal proclivities, but he wanted to protect Bartolomeo’s privacy as much as possible. It was one thing to be nineteen, obscenely famous practically overnight, and ready to admit your pansexuality to the world, and quite another to ask two fully grown men for the details of their very new and still developing sex life. 

Still, Cavendish knew from the slew of interviews that had followed his coming out that the questions were going to ask more about exactly that than anything else of actual importance, based solely on the fact that his partner of choice was also a man. Suleiman gave him the okay to deflect a few of the worst, but they couldn’t all be avoided, so they worked together to prepare answers that satisfied curiosity without lending too much credence to Absalom’s obvious bias. 

Feeling alright about everything except having to deal with Absa’s leering stare for an hour or more, Cavendish left Suleiman to pick up the tab and return to Pappag, opting to head over to the Barto Club a little early. 

The gym was mostly empty when Cavendish arrived. The few people who were there stared at him curiously and openly, and Cavendish had no doubt that he was the first man of his stature and profession to have ever graced its halls. 

He found Bartolomeo in the small make-shift ring at the center of the room. He was flat on his back and swearing viciously, trying to force his way out from underneath Bellamy’s superior weight and proving unsuccessful. He flopped his head back in defeat and then grinned when he saw Cavendish wave from beyond the ropes. 

“Oh, hey! You’re here!”

Bellamy stood up to free him, watching with absent amusement as Bartolomeo scampered toward the edge of the ring and stuck his face through the ropes to give Cavendish a loud, sloppy kiss.

“You remember Bellamy, yeah?”

Cavendish nodded curtly, trying to ignore the jealousy gnawing at the pit of his stomach. 

Bartolomeo frowned. “Don’t be like that, Cabbage. I know he’s an opponent, but he’s a good guy. It’s cute, but ya really can’t have it out for _everyone_ I fight in the ring just cause sometimes they beat my ass.”

Cavendish stubbornly maintained his terse expression. “It isn’t that. It’s just…Well, forgive me if I don’t have any particular fondness for the other people you’ve slept with.”

“Oh, sure,” Bartolomeo drawled sarcastically, before his eyes went comically wide in realization. “Wait, you think I’ve _what_?!”

“Oh, come on,” Cavendish snapped, a flustered blush heating the tips of his ears. “I’m not an idiot. I was _there_ when you two were flirting after your match, and then you texted me the next morning and told me you were at his place. I can do the math, Barto.”

Behind Bartolomeo, Bellamy started to laugh. 

“Cavendish, what the actual _fuck_ are you talkin’ about? I got wasted and passed out on his couch. Christ, is _that_ why you were actin’ so weird?”

Cavendish’s brow furrowed. His eyes rose toward Bellamy. “You didn’t have sex with him?”

The other wrestler was cackling now, leaned back against the ropes as his hand clutched his stomach. He could barely breathe enough to respond to the question. “With Barto? _Fuck no_.”

“Hey,” Bartolomeo retorted, red blooming across his cheeks. “Don’t say it like that, shithead. You’d be lucky to get a piece of this ass.”

Bellamy was too busy fighting back tears of laughter to argue.

Barto flipped him off for good measure.

“Sorry,” Cavendish said quietly, regaining his attention. “I guess I probably should’ve just talked to you instead of getting jealous and distant.”

“Mmm.” Bartolomeo cupped Cavendish’s cheeks in his palms and kissed the tip of his nose. “You really are just a stupid Cabbage aren’t you?” As Cavendish frowned, Bartolomeo hopped out of the ring to stand beside him. “At least you’re pretty.”

That was enough to coax Cavendish’s lips back into a smile and Bartolomeo nodded his head toward the garment bags draped over his arm. 

“Whatcha got?”

“A couple things for you to try on. Pappag wanted me to see how they fit on you before the shoot so we can adjust when we get there if needed.”

“Mmkay. Let me rinse off and I’ll meet you in my office?”

Having forgotten that Bartolomeo actually _owned_ the gym, Cavendish was a bit taken aback. “Sure.”

The office in mention was small, just big enough for the desk at its far wall and a couple of extra chairs. Cavendish had a feeling that Barto didn’t do much of the actual running of the place, but at the very least he’d done the decorating.

Cavendish was still slowly making his way from one Luffy-centric news article on the wall to the next when Bartolomeo reappeared. 

“Oh.” He cast barely more than a cursory glance at Cavendish’s position in the room before moving to unzip the first of the garment bags. “That was when he fought Katakuri Charlotte and actually won. Not even _I_ thought he could pull that off. Dude’s a fuckin’ monster, but Luffy-senpai beat him only two years into his career. Wish I coulda been there.”

He withdrew an all-white tuxedo and eyed it critically. “Really?”

“They only made you two outfits,” Cavendish answered, perching atop the edge of the desk as Bartolomeo dropped his pants. “I have four, and they’re all very much more elaborate than either of yours, so I won’t tolerate your complaints.”

“Okay, but this is what you _do_ , Cabbage. You’re used to it.”

Cavendish stepped forward and retrieved the accompanying crimson tie, anticipating the need for his help. “For today it’s what you do too, Rooster. Suit up.”

He did so with minimal complaint, and Cavendish was only a little disappointed to find that it fit Bartolomeo perfectly. Still, it was slim-fitting, and for a moment, Cavendish was actually jealous of how good Bartolomeo’s ass looked in a pair of tight tuxedo pants. 

“Oi, my eyes are up here, ya horny pervert.”

Cavendish let out an affronted gasp and darted his eyes back up to take in Bartolomeo’s smug expression. “ _Me?_ I’m just appreciating the sight of my partner in a well-made tux. If anyone’s going to be the horny pervert, it’s you. I’ll be wearing a skirt for a least a few of the pictures.”

Bartolomeo’s gaze darkened. “How much more will Suleiman hate me if I’ve suddenly gotta take a shit after ya put it on and drag ya with me?”

“Well…It wouldn’t be the first time I’d slipped away from a shoot to get laid,” Cavendish admitted. “And the one time I did it, Suleiman said he’d castrate me if I ever let it interfere with my work again, so I think I’d be getting the brunt of his rage, not you.”

“That’s a shame. I kinda like your balls.”

“Mm, yes. I’d rather like to keep them, so…hands off.”

Bartolomeo offered a cheeky, two-fingered salute as he began to undress again. “Aye aye, Cap’n.”

The other outfit fit as well as the first, and Bartolomeo was fond enough of it to keep it on as they got ready to leave. Pappag had crafted a variant of Bartolomeo’s typical wrestling attire, replacing his usual plum-colored coat and tattered trousers with a coat made entirely of deep red faux fur that fell nearly to the floor, and a cropped pair of red and yellow checkered pants that accentuated the thick corded muscle of his thighs and calves. Cavendish agreed that it was a good choice on Pappag’s part to include it.

By the time they grabbed everything they needed and headed back out into the gym proper, Bellamy had moved over to one of the punching bags along the wall and he looked up as Bartolomeo said his goodbyes to the other few people across the room. When Barto met his gaze, Bellamy wolf whistled and the younger wrestler rolled his eyes. 

“Oh, so _now_ you’d hit it?”

“It’s a good-looking coat.” His arms crossed over his wide chest as he looked toward Cavendish. “You willing to share?”

When Cavendish took more than a second to think about it, Bellamy quickly cried off, leaving Bartolomeo to sulk.

“Come on, Barto, we have to go.” Hypocritically annoyed by his boyfriend’s theatrics, Cavendish glanced impatiently at his watch. “Suleiman might be alone with Absalom right now and if we don’t hurry, he’ll kill him before we even get there.”

By the time they arrived, the photography team was present and well into their preparation and although Absalom’s head was still attached to his shoulders, Suleiman looked about one ill-timed quip from snapping. Thankfully, the photographer who approached at their appearance was one that the model and his manager knew well, and liked. His name was Attach, and he had been behind the lens for more of Cavendish’s work than any other photographer. Once, he’d worked for the World Government, but after uncovering a scandal that was hastily swept under the rug, he had switched to the world of fashion, and developed a friendly camaraderie with Cavendish and Suleiman both. 

“How’d we manage this?” Cavendish asked Suleiman, but it was Attach who responded. 

“I made myself available when I caught wind of what this was all about.” The small, older man looked up at Bartolomeo, having to crane his neck to take all of him in. “Suleiman showed me a few pictures so I had some idea of what I was working with but,”

“He’s a little more impressive in person?” Cavendish finished, sliding a hand up to rest comfortably on Bartolomeo’s chest as he blushed at the attention. 

“Precisely.” He watched the affectionate smile that Cavendish cast upward at Bartolomeo’s embarrassment and laughed softly. “This should be fun. We’re all seeing a new side of Cavendish along with the readers today.”

Having successfully flustered both of his models, Attach handed them off to the makeup team to prepare as he finished setting the stage for the cover shot.

After a moment of absent supervision, Suleiman escaped Absalom’s presence to go find his client. Cavendish was making conversation with the woman painstakingly adjusting his curls and his eyes cut briefly up toward Suleiman’s reflection as he settled behind him. 

“When you’re done prettying him up, you might want to deal with this.” Suleiman moved the collar of Cavendish’s dress shirt aside with one finger and offered up the extremely pointed look that he’d barely managed to hold back in front of Pappag and Camie.

The mark that Bartolomeo had left had bloomed impressively against Cavendish’s pale skin, the white marks of his teeth visible against the mottled, purpling bruise that surrounded them. It would be, as they both knew, rather noticeable in most of the outfits Cavendish would be wearing for the shoot. 

“I thought you knew better than this.”

Cavendish frowned. “I wasn’t exactly expecting a photo shoot _immediately_ after. I didn’t have anything scheduled until Tuesday, it would’ve faded by then.”

Suleiman’s grunted reply didn’t sound particularly convinced. “Tell him to be a little more careful next time. We make money off of your appearance and it isn’t exactly professional to let it get abused like that.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Cavendish snapped irritably. “And I don’t need to apologize or explain myself to you.”

Suleiman opened his mouth to argue, but Attach reappeared and offered a gentle chastisement before they could really get into it. 

“Come on, Suleiman. The boy’s been modeling since he was eight years old, you’re lucky he hasn’t done anything like this sooner. Better that it’s for this particular shoot than the result of a drunken teenage hook-up, hm?”

Cavendish didn’t appreciate the insinuation that he lost so much control of himself around alcohol that he would risk letting a stranger desecrate the body that made him his money, but, Attach was taking his side, and everyone in the room knew that he was a notorious lightweight, so he kept quiet. 

“Emery, dear, just put a little foundation over it. I can remove it when I’m editing if I decide it’s too risqué for WEJ, although I do actually like it, given your partner’s stage name, and I daresay a hickey is going to be quite tame given the kind of pictures Morgans has asked me to take of the two of you.”

The photographer grinned at the simultaneous reactions from the other two men, Cavendish raising his eyebrows as Suleiman scowled. 

When his makeup was finished, Attach directed him toward the outfit he’d selected for the cover shot: an open, satin dress shirt lined with ruffles that tucked neatly into a pair of dark, form-fitting capris. He was eyed critically once it was on, the older man tapping a finger idly against his lips. 

“How tall is Bartolomeo?”

“Uh…” Cavendish waved a hand vaguely a bit over his head as Suleiman pulled out his phone. Attach looked to Suleiman for confirmation, nodding firmly when he replied. 

“Six six.”

“Alright. That’s good. No shoes for now, Cavendish, I want to make the most of that height difference.”

Bare feet slapping rhythmically against the cool laminate flooring, Cavendish followed the photographer back out into the studio space. Bartolomeo stood just beyond the row of stationary cameras, looking vaguely uncomfortable until he caught sight of his boyfriend. A grin lit up his features when Cavendish moved to join him and he lifted a hand from his pocket to tease along the obscenely deep v of Cavendish’s shirt. 

“You look good.”

“I always look good, Barto. That’s my job.”

“God, you’re insufferable.” Bartolomeo looked annoyed despite the words that followed. “Am I allowed to kiss that smart mouth of yours with all these cameras around?”

“I suppose so.”

Cavendish lifted onto his toes, his palms pressed tightly to Bartolomeo’s chest as Barto’s arms encircled his waist. They stayed together for a few long seconds, deaf to the telltale sound of a camera shuttering somewhere behind them and only breaking apart when Attach loudly cleared his throat. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” he called out, amusement clear in his tone. 

Snapping into a long-practiced focus, Cavendish pulled away to await direction, ignoring Bartolomeo’s grumble of dissent. 

“Alright.” The photographer clapped his hands together and then rubbed his palms idly as he eyed the two men. “Bartolomeo, stand behind Cavendish, and then a bit to the left. Right shoulder just about between his shoulder blades. Yes, just like that. And then…left hand in your pocket, but make sure your elbow is angled back so that the coat’s pulled back a bit. We want to be able to see those impressive abs, don’t we?”

Bartolomeo followed the instructions, blushing slightly when Cavendish nodded in agreement. 

Attach narrowed his eyes for a moment and then raised his camera before pointing at Bartolomeo again. 

“Good, now, bend down just a little, and put your lips against that lovely mark you left on his neck.”

Both men flushed, more at the memory than the call out, and Attach grinned unapologetically. 

“Perfect. Hold there. Now, Cavendish, left arm up, and put your hand at the back of his neck.”

Cavendish tangled his fingers in the shorter strands at the nape of Bartolomeo’s neck and tugged just enough to make his eyelids flutter. 

The photographer clicked his tongue in warning and lowered his camera to give Cavendish a level stare. “Don’t start teasing the poor man yet, Cavendish. He isn’t a professional like you. Save it for the center spread.”

“Yeah, Cabbage,” Bartolomeo murmured, pressing a light kiss to the bruise beneath his mouth and reveling in Cavendish’s swallowed gasp. “Don’t be a _tease_.” He pushed his hips forward and Cavendish tried valiantly not to squirm when he felt a slight twitch against his backside. 

“Alright,” Attach continued, drawing their attention back off of each other for a moment. “Bartolomeo, put your right hand at the front of Cavendish’s waist, along his leg, fingers spread a bit. We want to keep things tame for now, but suggestive. Make the readers want to open up to the good stuff.”

Bartolomeo began to move his hand to the directed position, then hesitated. Opting to take the instructions a step further, he slipped his hand beneath Cavendish’s pants, his fingertips teasing along the inside of his thigh as his thumb rested just above the line of his zipper. When Cavendish’s head tipped back slightly and Bartolomeo pressed down with another kiss, a few cameras shuttered in quick succession. 

“Perfect, that’s perfect.” The photographer was a little breathless with excitement, moving across the floor to get a closer shot. He had taken thousands of pictures of Cavendish during his career, some with other models, a fair amount erotic in nature, but even Cavendish’s best professional smolder paled in comparison to the chemistry that was already evident between him and Bartolomeo. 

“Cavendish, you should’ve told me he’s a natural. Go ahead and wrap your fingers around his wrist, guide that hand exactly where you want it.”

Cavendish’s long, thin fingers circled Bartolomeo’s wrist. When two of them slid down to rest against Barto’s knuckles beneath the thin fabric, they were shifted, just slightly, and Cavendish felt Bartolomeo’s heartbeat stutter against his back. 

“You’re gonna look really hot on this cover,” Bartolomeo murmured, his head tilting to nuzzle against the line of Cavendish’s jaw. Cavendish hummed appreciatively at the sentiment, eyes still trained on the lenses pointed their way. “It’s one I would’ve bought for my collection.”

Cavendish’s lips twitched in amusement and a camera caught the involuntary smile before he could school his expression. “You’d rather masturbate to softcore pictures of the two of us than just fuck me?”

“I said _‘would’ve’_ ,” Bartolomeo argued defensively, and he only got the last word because Attach interrupted their banter. 

“Bartolomeo, I know he’s handsome, but eyes on the cameras please.”

Bartolomeo’s gaze flicked up, dark eyes just visible beneath hooded eyelids as his mouth pressed back firmly against Cavendish’s neck. 

“Hmm, that’s almost it…” Attach gave a short series of commands to one of his assistants. They nodded and then hurried over toward the couple, fixing what looked to Bartolomeo like barely three strands of Cavendish’s hair but which seemed to please the photographer. 

The lights were adjusted a few times as the cameras shuttered at varying but near constant intervals. Finally, Attach let his camera fall back to rest against his chest. 

“That’s going to make a very striking cover,” he said proudly. Bartolomeo released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I’m honored to be the one capturing this announcement.”

“Well, you aren’t the first,” Suleiman piped up. “There are an obscene amount of paparazzi pictures all over the Internet. If they were aiming for subtlety they would’ve had a better chance walking around with a neon sign that said ‘we’re dating’.”

“We _weren’t_ ,” Cavendish huffed. “Since when do you give a fuck about who I’m seen with anyway?”

Suleiman frowned but didn’t reply. They glared at each other for another few seconds before Suleiman broke, waving a hand impatiently to keep things moving. Admitting his reasoning now would just make it clear how much he cared about Bartolomeo’s unique potential to break Cavendish’s heart, and that was a conversation Suleiman wanted to have with the wrestler in private where he could be appropriately threatening. 

“Back to makeup,” Attach ordered, shooing both men back toward the partition separating the makeshift wardrobe from the rest of the studio. 

When they emerged again, the set had been changed, the dark backdrop replaced by a section of brick, in front of which had been dragged a platform adorned with rope to resemble one corner of a wrestling ring.

Bartolomeo was, as instructed, in the same outfit as before, but Cavendish had already undergone his first of several wardrobe changes. He walked out in a pair of shiny latex shorts and a matching sleeveless top, both the same deep red as Bartolomeo’s coat, with his hair tied in a braid and tossed over one shoulder. Bartolomeo snorted at the sight of him, leaning his elbows on the ropes as Cavendish gave him a little twirl. 

“You s’posed to be my ring boy, Cabbage?”

“Evidently,” Cavendish answered. “It’s a little much for me, but, this is what I get for dating a wrestler I guess.”

“The readers are going to love it,” Attach assured them.

“As long as ya aren’t expecting me to actually wrestle with him in front of the cameras,” Bartolomeo replied, shaking his head when Attach and Absalom exchanged a sidelong glance. “I won’t do it. Y’all might’ve heard that pro wrestling is just for show and assumed that means it’s easy, but, it ain’t, and I’m not gonna let him get hurt because he hasn’t practiced before.”

“Understood,” Attach replied, brow furrowing as he took in the set and tried to alter his plan.

“You sure?” Cavendish asked, teasingly, his arms moving to snake around Bartolomeo’s waist as he dropped his chin to his shoulder. “Might be sexy to have you throw me around a little.”

“Lemme nail ya with a fuckin’ curb stomp and see if you still think it’s sexy,” Bartolomeo answered. After a beat, he started to laugh, and Cavendish sighed. 

“That means nothing to me, Barto.”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s—” He snickered. “It’s funny, trust me.”

“Alright.” Attach clapped his hands together to draw their attention and then pointed to Cavendish. “Can you sit up there on the corner of the ropes?”

Cavendish hefted himself up and then nodded, belatedly. 

“Good, now, straighten your legs across the top one, all the way, if you can.”

He hesitated for a moment before steadying himself on the top turnbuckle and stretching his legs to either side, hands flailing out to Bartolomeo’s shoulders when he almost lost his balance. Barto stepped unthinkingly forward, hands going around his hips to steady him, and Attach lifted his camera the moment they came into contact. 

“Stay right there.” He moved up to meet them, shifting one of Bartolomeo’s hands to grip the end of Cavendish’s braid and pulling slowly until Cavendish’s head was tilted fully toward the cameras. After withdrawing a few paces and squinting through the focus again, Attach nodded. “Bartolomeo, look at me. And just remember, these pictures are going to be in the section of the interview about your career, so lean into the persona.”

Barto nodded in understanding, giving the camera a suitably self-satisfied grin as he forced Cavendish into a sharp arch. 

“This count as your morning yoga?” 

Cavendish rolled his eyes, but with his neck craned almost painfully backward toward the camera, couldn’t properly respond. 

After getting a few good shots, Bartolomeo was shifted around to the outside of the ‘ring,’ while Attach stepped inside of it. They maintained approximately the same position, but allowed Cavendish’s head to lean back against Bartolomeo’s shoulder as Barto’s free hand shifted to rest against his thigh. 

By the time Attach was satisfied, Cavendish’s legs were burning with the effort of the stretch he had been forced into and he hopped back down to the floor with a sigh of relief. 

“What’s next,” he asked, a little grumpily. “Cartwheels? Handstands?”

“No, just a few quick shots of you two standing together in the ring and then we’ll move on,” Attach replied distractedly. “Cavendish, stand behind him and start taking his coat off. _Slowly._ We’ll get shots as you go and then once it’s off, you put it on.” 

Evidently, quick meant something different to the photographer than it did to his two subjects, because it was nearly half an hour later that they were darting back behind the partition to prepare for the second set, Barto hot on Cavendish’s heels as he attempted to abscond with the coat Bartolomeo had already grown attached to. 

The brick wall was still there when they reentered, but the ring had been moved out in favor of a large armchair, stylized to resemble a throne. If the last set had been contrived to place the focus on Bartolomeo, this one was clearly meant for Cavendish. 

Bartolomeo had been forced into his tailored tuxedo, and Cavendish was again, dressed to at least partially match, decked out in a plain white dress shirt, unbuttoned to his breast bone, and a pair of black leather pants that caught, and held, Bartolomeo’s attention. Over both was a large cream-colored coat adorned in pastel roses, which Cavendish’s makeup had been altered to complement, and to top it off, a familiar plumed hat. Cavendish winked when Bartolomeo smiled goofily at the sight of it. 

“Cavendish,” Attach directed, jumping back to work the moment his models reappeared. “In the chair, back against one arm, legs over the other. Bartolomeo, stand behind it, arms crossed over the back, eyes on him.”

They moved accordingly, Cavendish reclining regally in the chair as Bartolomeo settled above him. 

“Morgans is insisting on The Prince and the Cannibal for the issue title,” Absalom spoke up from his corner. “And this will certainly make it obvious why they call you the Prince of Fashion.” His eyes roamed over Cavendish’s sprawled form, unabashed in their appraisal, and his smile was sharp. “You look quite at home there.”

“It’s definitely not because of my last name,” Cavendish said sarcastically, trying to deflect the attention and earning a snicker from Bartolomeo.

“Or your charming personality,” Suleiman added, quirking his client’s lips into a frown. 

“I don’t force any of you to put up with me.”

“No, you just pay us to.” His long-suffering manager stood at Attach’s side, wholly unaffected by the glare that Cavendish sent his way. 

“Don’t scowl at your fans,” Attach interjected. “Eyes up, give me a look that shows you know how much they all adore you. Especially that one.” He cocked a finger up toward Bartolomeo and then moved it to the shutter button. That coaxed the desired expression onto Cavendish’s features and when Attach paused again to exchange a few quick words with Absalom, Cavendish looked up toward Bartolomeo.

“Are you my biggest fan, Barto?”

“No.” He moved one hand up, resting his chin in his palm as he returned Cavendish’s gaze. “I’m your partner, Cabbage. I get special privileges. ‘Sides, bein’ a fan takes a lot of energy and I’ve gotta save it all for Luffy-senpai.”

Cavendish’s answering glower was interrupted by the photographer. 

“Cavendish, sit up straight, legs spread. Bartolomeo, down on the floor between his knees, facing this way.” He waited until they had adjusted and then moved forward, maneuvering Cavendish’s arms so his elbows were propped against Bartolomeo’s shoulders with his palms flat against his chest. He tilted Bartolomeo’s chin upward and then pushed Cavendish’s head down, locking their eyes. After stepping back a bit and squinting through his camera to check the angle, he nodded approvingly and returned to take off Cavendish’s hat, splaying his long hair over his shoulders so that it acted as a curtain to partially conceal them both. 

“Okay, and…both of you, smiles please, all focus on each other. Make the readers feel like they’re getting a peek behind the proverbial curtain.”

Cavendish smiled softly, successfully encouraging Bartolomeo to mirror his affectionate expression as they met each other’s eyes.

“I haven’t forgotten what you just said and I’m going to be upset at you about it later, but thank you, for doing this.” Cavendish's fingers flexed against Bartolomeo’s chest in as much of an embrace as he was able to manage in their current position. “I know it isn’t your thing.”

Bartolomeo shrugged, and then grimaced when the movement earned a cry of reproach from the photographer. “Yeah. But, it’ll be good for the interview right? For people to actually see us together, not just hear about it online?”

“Mmhm. And it won’t work for long, but, it’ll bring down the going price of paparazzi shots for a bit. This shoot will give people a look at what they really want to see, not blurry pictures of us across a restaurant.”

Bartolomeo rolled his eyes. “Bunch of fuckin’ voyeurs.”

Cavendish laughed, and the grin that answered it provided the final shot that would end up in the glossy pages of WEJ’s exclusive feature.

They were adjusted and directed and readjusted through a few more poses, each more titillating than the last as they approached the shots that would be used for the center spread. Buttons were undone, hands drifted lower, kisses were pressed to skin warming slowly with a growing flush. By the time they were told to return to makeup, Bartolomeo was more than a little flustered, and Cavendish was amused by his inability to conceal it. 

Bartolomeo was the first to return to the set, his eyes zeroing in on the bed that had been dragged to the center of the room. It was made up with deep red silk sheets, an assortment of velvety pillows piled high against the headboard. He watched one of the assistants adjust the portable lighting to cast a provocative shadow across it and let his thoughts wander a little too far into what he and Cavendish might be told to do on that bed in a few short moments.

“You can sit,” Attach offered, noting but thankfully misinterpreting his awkward posture. “Cavendish should be out soon.”

Bartolomeo nodded and did just that, settling his hands between his knees as he let his eyes close for a moment. He didn’t regret this, not yet anyway, but he was already starting to feel drained. How Cavendish did this so often without losing his mind, he wasn’t sure, but he was growing to admire him for it. 

He recognized Cavendish’s gait the moment he stepped back onto the set, long strides punctuated by a sharp and familiar rhythm. He opened his eyes again right as Attach noticed Cavendish’s arrival, breath rushing almost painfully into his lungs as he caught his first glimpse of him.

“Alright, we’re using this set for the center spread and the finishing shots—”

Cavendish had on a pair of ankle-high boots, leaving nearly the entire length of his long legs visible until upper-thigh, where the bottom of a neat, pleated skirt swished with every step. The outfit was completed with a cropped, metallic jacket, leaving his midriff exposed to the cameras, and Bartolomeo’s unwavering stare.

Bartolomeo was so enraptured by the sight of him that he no longer had any idea what was being said around them. Cavendish started walking toward him, heels clacking, hips swaying, and he caught the end of Attach’s sentence as his brain stuttered back to life. 

“—up to you, Cavendish. We’ll just be here to adjust as needed.”

Cavendish’s head bobbed in agreement. He stopped in front of Bartolomeo, placing his hands on his spread thighs as he tucked himself neatly between them. 

“Hey there, handsome.”

Barto swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Hi.”

“Can you take a bit more teasing?” He asked the question almost gently, but Bartolomeo could sense the smirk behind his words. “I’ve been told they need ‘sultry and provocative’ for the center spread, but I know this is your first shoot and I don’t want to break you.”

“I can take it,” Barto answered. But whether he was just trying to prove that he could manage this or was simply desperate for Cavendish to offer whatever touch he was allowed, he couldn’t say for sure.

Cavendish put a finger below his chin, tilting it up to meet his lips for a kiss that lingered just long enough to be captured by the watchful ring of cameras that surrounded them.

When he pulled away, he murmured against Bartolomeo’s softly panting mouth. “Lay back against the pillows for me? Up on your elbows.”

Bartolomeo scrambled eagerly into position, freezing momentarily when one of the assistants rushed over to rearrange the pillows and then settling when they withdrew. 

A soft blue light glowed to life somewhere above them, illuminating the distracting amount of Cavendish’s pale skin that was bared for the cameras. He crawled forward, slowly, back arched, eyes hooded, looking for all the world like he was going to absolutely devour the man waiting for him at the other end of the bed. Bartolomeo didn’t know if Cavendish was actually as affected by the scene as he was or if it was a carefully crafted expression for the benefit of the cameras. For his twitching, half-hard cock, the difference really didn’t matter. 

Cavendish settled with his knees on either side of Bartolomeo’s hips and then reached forward, bypassing Barto’s hand that instinctively rose in answer and latching onto his tie. His fingers climbed slowly up the dark silk, higher and higher until they closed just below the knot at Bartolomeo’s throat and _pulled_.

A soft cry was choked into silence by Cavendish’s tight grip. They were mere inches apart, close, _so close_ , but Cavendish’s hand was firm, keeping that distance between them. The room was so quiet it felt as though everyone was holding their breath, captivated by the tension crackling in the center of the room. 

Attach spoke up, his voice hushed but still professionally firm. 

“That’s it, hold that. Don’t breathe.”

Bartolomeo couldn’t even if he’d tried. All the air had left his lungs in a rush at Cavendish’s command and it lingered in the scant space between their lips, warm and reverent. 

The moment Attach lowered his camera, Cavendish surged forward, pressing Bartolomeo down against the pillows with the sheer force of his kiss. Barto returned it, too wound up and eager to realize that the cameras were silent, too new to the process to realize as everyone else had just how acutely Cavendish’s typical focus had been broken. 

The rise of muffled shuffling from their audience had Cavendish pulling back again after what felt like minutes but could have only been a few short seconds. He pressed his palms to Bartolomeo’s chest, spine moving into an enticing curve as he loomed over him. Barto sank his teeth into his bottom lip to keep from moaning aloud when he sat firmly on top of his cock, now embarrassingly hard and throbbing in time with his pulse. 

Attach moved over to adjust the folds of Cavendish’s skirt and then paused for a moment, eyeing them as he composed a potential shot off the cuff. 

“Can we get a bit more…aggression?” he suggested. “Our readers are expecting ‘Barto the Cannibal’ and while I appreciate vulnerability in this line of work, you look ready to eat out of the palm of his hand.”

A hot flush spread across Bartolomeo’s cheeks, stark against the white of his collar, but he nodded in acknowledgment. The truth was, all Cavendish had to do was snap his fingers and Bartolomeo would happily submit to him, but not even Cavendish himself had realized that yet, so he supposed he could pretend for the moment. 

After hesitating for a second, Bartolomeo began to lift his left arm, only for Cavendish to shake his head. “Use your other hand,” he coached. “Or your arm is just going to be blocking the shot.”

Bartolomeo did as he was told, acutely aware of just how out of his depth he was. As directed, his right hand rose instead, thumb settling just above Cavendish’s Adam’s apple and fingers curling around the base of his skull. Cavendish tilted his head back, just slightly, lips parting. When he shifted, Bartolomeo could tell that he wasn’t quite as unaffected as he had believed. 

His other hand crept forward, finding purchase against the smooth curve of Cavendish’s thigh. Attach stepped forward to rearrange the pleats of Cavendish’s skirt once again, revealing the entirety of Bartolomeo’s large hand and the soft swell of skin between each spread finger as they dug in. 

“Good,” Attach offered, stepping back to his camera and gesturing for a few shifted angles from the others. “Very good. Don’t do anything that feels unnatural, but give me a little more…smug, if you would, Bartolomeo. I’d like an expression that makes it clear that you know it’s a certain kind of victory to have earned a place in Cavendish’s heart. We want them to be jealous of you, and want to _be_ you. No judgment of course, Cavendish, but the reading public does know how fickle you tend to be with your affections.” 

Cavendish rolled his eyes, earning a smirk from Bartolomeo that sent the cameras off again. 

“That’s wonderful. Hold there, both of you. Christopher, dim the blue and up the spot on Bartolomeo, please.”

They remained where they were, frozen, and when Barto unconsciously pressed his thumb more firmly on Cavendish’s throat, he felt the pulse beneath it flutter. 

“Is this revenge?” Cavendish murmured softly, quiet enough that no one could hear it and his lips barely moved to shape the words. 

“Maybe,” Bartolomeo answered. 

Cavendish huffed a soft laugh, his eyes flicking down to meet Bartolomeo’s with something akin to amusement. 

“Okay, now, Cavendish, don’t move. Bartolomeo, keep your hands exactly where they are, but, sit up and just sort of, hold your teeth over his neck, almost touching but with enough of a gap for us to get a good shot of them.”

Barto rose up, watching as Cavendish’s eyes followed the flex of his abdominal muscles before returning to meet his gaze, a little darker than before.

He moved to hover in the directed position and looked toward the camera when Attach moved around to the foot of the bed. 

“Looks great,” he said absently, scrolling through the last few shots and then shifting around to the other side of the bed to capture Cavendish’s expression. “Pull back a bit and just gaze into each other’s eyes for a moment, would you please?”

They did, and what might have felt ridiculous enough to break their concentration in any other context was intense enough given their individual focus on one another to achieve the photographer’s desired result.

“Absolutely perfect. Incredible. The readers are going to have to close the magazine for a second and fan themselves off with it.” Attach moved a little to his left and hovered a finger above the shutter. “Cavendish, close your eyes a bit more for us. ‘Sultry’, remember?”

His lids fluttered, resting low enough that only a sliver of blue was still visible beneath them as his long eyelashes brushed his cheekbones. 

Bartolomeo felt his heartbeat stutter at the sight of him. Contrived for the purpose of public viewership or not, Cavendish was beautiful like this, looking so vulnerable and open beneath Bartolomeo’s touch. It made the ache in him swell, and when the signal was given to relax their positions, Bartolomeo leaned in unthinkingly. The hand at Cavendish’s neck shifted to bury in his hair and drag his face forward into a searing kiss. 

“You’re incredible, Cav,” Bartolomeo whispered, earning a breathy sigh against his lips. “Fuckin’ _breathtaking_ , ya know that?”

Cavendish kissed him back, ignoring the people and the lights and the flashing cameras and everything except for Bartolomeo’s unfailing worship. His dedication to the other idols in his life was different, decidedly more pure, and expressed more as a sort of uncontrollable bubbling over of excitement. When he was with Cavendish, his ardor was raw, unfettered, a little desperate in a way he couldn’t quite hide and Cavendish couldn’t help but adore. 

“You boys are making my job a bit difficult,” Attach piped up, frustration and amusement warring in his tone. “Some passionate lip lock will sell for sure, but we can’t fill the whole article with it.” Although, perhaps he should’ve known better; Suleiman had warned him that their relationship was as new as it could get and they were obviously still very much in a phase of absolute distraction. 

Bartolomeo and Cavendish couldn’t even be bothered to hear him.

It was when it was Suleiman who spoke that Cavendish’s attention was drawn back to their surroundings and he turned his head, landing Barto’s mouth unceremoniously against his cheek. 

“Attach,” he began, before clearing his throat to ensure he had gained his client’s attention. “I have to make a call, would you mind taking a short break? I shouldn’t be more than five—”

He fixed Cavendish with a shrewd glance and Bartolomeo watched as an entire silent conversation seemed to pass between the two men in a matter of seconds. 

“Ten minutes,” Suleiman corrected, grudgingly. 

Attach sighed and rubbed idly at his temples. “Yes, a break is probably a good idea. I’ll start looking over the shots we have and we’ll all reconvene in ten minutes.”

Halfway through his sentence, Cavendish’s hand moved firmly to Bartolomeo’s inner thigh and the look he sent his direction was enough to make Bartolomeo’s sluggish thoughts catch up to the situation that was being presented. Attach had hardly finished speaking when Barto blurted into the sudden shuffling of movement. 

“I’ve—I gotta piss!”

A few blank stares turned in his direction and he watched as Suleiman’s face dropped wearily into the palm of his hand. 

“Uh…Where’s the closest bathroom?”

Cavendish slid off the bed, heels clacking as they hit the floor.

“It’s just upstairs,” he answered, twining his fingers through Bartolomeo’s to guide him away. “I’ll show you.”

The moment the bathroom door was closed and locked, Bartolomeo had his hands on his belt, snapping it open and impatiently shoving his pants down to his knees. He shuffled forward, crowding Cavendish against the wall. When he dropped one hand to cup Cavendish’s ass and pull him close, Cavendish pressed his palm to Bartolomeo’s chest.

“Barto, wait.” As flattering as his insistence was, Cavendish couldn’t help but utter a soft laugh at Bartolomeo’s ferocity. “I’m not quite there yet.”

Cavendish could tell, could _feel_ that Bartolomeo was very much there already, pressing insistently against the inner curve of his thigh, but Barto slowed nonetheless. “Sure. What do you need?”

Those words alone were enough to move things along and Cavendish sighed when Bartolomeo’s lips began to tease along his jaw. He loved how eager to please Barto was, probably owing to more than a decade of considering the potential, and it made him wonder just how much control he would be willing to cede. The thought of having Bartolomeo completely and utterly at his whim was…tempting. 

“Just…talk to me?”

Bartolomeo’s hand smoothed across the back of one lean thigh, pulling until Cavendish’s leg was hooked up over his hip. The shift allowed him to press closer, rolling his hips in a slow, leisurely grind as he kissed along the extended curve of Cavendish’s neck. 

“You’re so handsome,” Bartolomeo murmured. The brush of his lips was soft, parted around each heated exhale of breath. “Every time I look at you I think I fall for ya a little more. And havin’ you all over me like that, knowin’ people are gonna see ya with me, see the mark I made,” His thumb brushed over the thinly concealed bruise and Cavendish felt his cock twitch with interest against the steady friction of Bartolomeo’s erection. “It makes me so fuckin’ hard, Cav. I don’t think I’m ever gonna be able to get enough of you.”

Cavendish tangled his fingers in Bartolomeo’s hair, drawing his mouth up into a sloppy kiss. His other hand reached between them, fumbling around until skin met skin and Bartolomeo moaned against his lips. 

Sweeping his thumb across the slit, Cavendish spread the gathering moisture along the head of Bartolomeo’s cock, pressing at the smooth dip just along the underside and earning a breathy, broken _“fu-ck…”_.

Tugging Bartolomeo closer with the leg around his waist, Cavendish slotted their hips together, his own hardening cock sliding along Bartolomeo’s slick length. He closed his fingers around Bartolomeo’s wrist and nipped lightly at the shell of his ear. 

“You do it. You have bigger hands.”

Barto’s rough snort of amusement morphed into a shaky groan as he obediently spit into his palm and began a steady rhythm. 

“Lazy brat.”

“Mm.” Cavendish hummed against the hollow at the edge of Bartolomeo’s jaw. “Maybe. But you were the one who was so turned on we had to sneak off to a bathroom to jerk each other off.”

“I’m sorry.” Bartolomeo’s tone suggested that he wasn’t very sorry at all, but to be fair, Cavendish wasn’t either. “I’m dealin’ with as much of thirteen years of pent-up sexual fantasy as I can handle at once, but it’s gonna take a bit to burn through all of it.”

“How long do I have until you get tired of me then?”

It wasn’t as much of a joke as Cavendish wished it was, but the chuckle that rumbled against his throat proved that Bartolomeo couldn’t hear the real worry behind it. 

“Neither of us has the stamina we did a decade ago, so…a couple weeks at least.”

Cavendish’s shaky smile was loosened alongside the knot in his stomach, tugged impatiently open by Bartolomeo’s nipping teeth and coaxed into a swollen, messy grin. 

The sounds of Bartolomeo’s loose fist were growing louder, sloppier, each pass eased with the spit and pre-cum smearing in haphazard streaks across his palm and fingertips. Their moans were muffled in the tangle of their tongues, swallowed before they could escape into the diminishing space between them. 

Lungs burning, Cavendish let his head fall back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed as Bartolomeo suctioned his lips to the bob of his Adam’s apple. 

“Wish we had more time,” Bartolomeo murmured, licking aimless lines along Cavendish’s craned neck. “This is good but,”

“Could be better,” Cavendish finished breathlessly, his mind in agreement even as his hips bucked reflexively into Bartolomeo’s grip. 

“You busy tomorrow night?”

Cavendish tried to conjure up a mental image of the calendar above his desk, but it was scattered by flashes of white light, flickering behind his eyelids with increasing intensity. “Maybe.” But what the hell, he could clear his schedule. “Prob—probably not. Why?”

“Come over to my house for dinner. I’ll cook. Bought some asparagus. You like that shit, yeah?” 

Did he like…God, _fuck_ , why was Bartolomeo talking about asparagus when his dick was sliding against Cavendish’s own like, oh, like _that_...

“Uh huh.”

Barto hummed a reply against Cavendish’s temple, his lips brushing the shell of his ear as he continued. “Good. I’ll cook, we’ll eat, and then I want you to take me to bed so I can have the luxury of screamin’ into my own pillow while ya push me down and fuck me.”

_Shit, fuck, **yes** , “Barto—”_

Cavendish’s hips rolled erratically into the steady rhythm of Bartolomeo’s fingers, every breath a ragged gasp. Bartolomeo moved down to nibble lightly at his neck and Cavendish groaned against his temple. 

“I—I’m getting close,” he whimpered. Bartolomeo pressed a kiss above his thundering pulse, thumb sweeping up to tease along the tip as Cavendish and his cock jerked in unison. “Oh, God, I’m so close.”

Two more strokes had Cavendish tossing his head and panting frantically as his toes curled in anticipation. It was right there, _so, **so** close_, until suddenly Bartolomeo was gone, taking with him the pressure and friction and _oh, fuck, no!_

Before Cavendish could voice his frustration, he heard the solid thump of Bartolomeo’s knees against the tile. He tilted his head back down, watching as Barto opened his mouth. His long tongue lolled out invitingly, the sharp ridges of his brow quirking upward to express the unspoken enticement. 

Too far gone to truly appreciate the sight, Cavendish pushed the head of his cock against Bartolomeo’s tongue, feeling his lips vibrate as he hummed at the pleasant weight of it. 

Bartolomeo stayed still, eager, obedient, _needy_ and Cavendish took everything he had to offer, thrusting into the wet warmth of his mouth as it brought his stolen orgasm surging back. 

“Oh, fuck, Bartolomeo, so good, t-too— _oh_ —.” 

He could see Bartolomeo’s hand moving in his periphery and the knowledge that Barto was getting himself off to the feeling of his dick in his mouth was too much for Cavendish to handle. All he could manage was a few shallow jerks before a series of broken, gasping cries were torn out of him. Eyes dark and trained upward to enjoy every reaction, Bartolomeo swallowed around Cavendish’s softening cock and began to slowly lap it clean. 

A shudder wracked Cavendish’s frame at the overstimulation and he curled in on himself, fingers tugging in Bartolomeo’s hair to ease him away and stop the painful jolts of sensation skittering along his spine. 

“I can’t—it’s too—” 

Crumpling back into the wall for support, Cavendish let his eyes close again as Bartolomeo rose to his feet. He heard the slick sound of Bartolomeo finishing himself off and only barely managed to wonder if he should return the favor before a soft groan and faint splash took that option off the table. When he opened his eyes again, Bartolomeo was leaning over him, forehead against the arm he had resting over Cavendish’s head as he offered a dopey, sated grin. 

The gurgle of the refilling toilet broke the silence and Cavendish sighed. “If Absalom makes some comment about this in his interview, I’m going to have him killed.”

Barto laughed, swooping down to give Cavendish a kiss. 

“We probably deserve all the shit we’re gonna get. Couple of grown-ass men actin’ like horny teenagers.”

“Just because I’m thirty doesn’t mean I can’t be horny,” Cavendish countered, tucking himself away and tugging up Bartolomeo’s still open zipper. 

Bartolomeo snickered. “Good to know I don’t have to worry about losin’ my sex drive when I get to your age.”

“Two years, asshole.” Cavendish’s furious upward glance was punctuated by a petulant stomp to the toe of Bartolomeo’s shoe. _“Two years.”_

A sharp knock on the door kept Bartolomeo from replying, Suleiman’s voice calling out through the barrier. 

“Time’s up. You still have work to do.”

Cavendish huffed irritably and pushed off of the wall. “We’re coming.”

“Well, that’s a little more detail than I needed,” Suleiman began drily, but Cavendish was already slamming open the door and flipping him off before he could finish, Bartolomeo following at a leisurely stroll. 

The three of them returned to the studio, Attach offering a friendly, albeit knowing smile, and Absalom leering from his place on the sidelines as the rest of the team all tried desperately to pretend that they didn’t look exactly like they’d just been frotting in a public bathroom. 

Cavendish had already stomped halfway to the makeshift wardrobe ahead of Suleiman when Attach cleared his throat. 

“Just a moment, if you don’t mind. Our final scene for the shoot was supposed to capture this particular…atmosphere, and I’m not sure even our talented makeup artists could achieve such an accurate level of dishevelment.”

Cavendish turned on his heel. He caught his own reflection in a nearby mirror and, well, shit, there was really nothing subtle about how fucked out he looked. A glance toward where Bartolomeo had stopped confirmed that he looked only slightly more put together.

“Fine.”

“Thank you. Both of you strip down to your underwear and then get back on the bed when you’re finished.”

Bartolomeo balked, but when none of the others in the room so much as glanced his direction and he saw Cavendish undressing without hesitation, he brought his fingers up to the knot of his tie. 

Cavendish was already in position by the time he’d managed to free himself from his tux, idly stretching to work the soreness from his muscles as Bartolomeo moved to join him. Attach raised his gaze when he heard the bed creak for the second time. 

“This is supposed to be, you know, pillow talk,” he began, waving his hand in a vague gesture. “Just, imagine that you’ve been recently intimate and you’re basking in the afterglow.” He caught the sideways glance that the two men exchanged and raised his eyebrows. “Hypothetically, of course.”

Beneath watchful eyes and the alternating shutter of cameras, the pictures reflected a great deal less introspection and softness than had been the reality of the couple’s few instances of post-coital cuddling and instead showcased the playful, teasing dynamic that epitomized the rest of their relationship.

They captured Cavendish’s unrestrained peals of laughter as Bartolomeo accidentally discovered how ticklish his sides were. The lighting caught the wet, red shine of Cavendish’s bottom lip between Bartolomeo’s nipping teeth. A carefully focused zoom documented the brush of Cavendish’s fingertips across the lines tattooed to Bartolomeo’s temple and the way they crinkled affectionately where they met the corner of his eye. 

Minds cleared by their effective diversion on the second floor, they were much more patient and cooperative through the last half hour of the shoot, relaxing and idly discussing their plans for the week as they were shifted between each shot, sheets rearranged to maintain the illusion of nudity and lighting adjusted to capture a variety of different moods. 

It was already growing dark outside by the time Attach declared his work done, setting his assistants to work tearing down the set as Cavendish and Bartolomeo wandered back behind the partition to get redressed for their interview. Before Absalom could pull them away, Attach joined them. 

“Suleiman admitted that you were a little blindsided by all of this, so, I wanted to thank you both for being generally willing and easy models for me. Always a pleasure to work with you, Cavendish, but you should try and get Bartolomeo to join you again in the future. You’re a particularly attractive couple and I have lots of ideas for you.”

“It would take a hell of a lot of convincing,” Bartolomeo said with a yawn. “But,” He shrugged. “Maybe.”

When Cavendish put a hand up to shield his face from Bartolomeo’s gaze and mouthed ‘I’ll get him,’ Attach’s lips quirked into a smile. 

“Good luck with Absa.” He nodded toward Suleiman when he walked in and then waved as he made his exit. “I’ll keep in touch.”

“He’s up in his office waiting for you,” Suleiman said when Cavendish glanced up at him. “I’m going to run next door for some coffee, but I already made it clear to him what questions he’s not allowed to ask, and he understands how big of a deal this is going to be for WEJ so he’s at least worried enough about Morgans letting him keep his job to stay on whatever qualifies as his best behavior.”

Bartolomeo looked between the two other men. “We don’t like this guy?”

“No,” they answered in unison, prompting a nod of understanding. 

“Text me your order if you want something,” Suleiman added, glancing down at his watch. “I shouldn’t be long.”

Bartolomeo snagged Cavendish’s phone to send Suleiman the specifics of a caffeinated concoction that was almost astonishingly high on the sugar to coffee ratio as they ascended the stairs to Absalom’s office. He was at his small desk when they entered and he gestured toward the couch opposite with an unsettlingly wide grin. 

“I hope you’re both looking forward to this as much as I am.”

Cavendish’s expression soured and Bartolomeo offered a noncommittal grunt as they settled onto the couch. Absalom busied himself with setting up an audio recorder and retrieving a pen and notepad. Once he was ready, he cast a quizzical look toward the couple and after exchanging a glance, they both nodded. 

Absalom’s finger pressed down on the recorder and he cleared his throat before fixing his gaze on the two men across from him. 

“To start, I’ll ask the question that’s been on everybody’s minds for the past few months, myself included. How on Earth did you two meet? You don’t exactly run in the same social circles, so was it…introduced by a mutual friend? Instant attraction across the room at a crowded bar? Cavendish, your fans have been speculating and theorizing non-stop since you were first seen together.”

Cavendish offered a look of mild surprise and, not for the first time, was glad he paid someone else to wade through the mire of his many social media accounts. “Oh, they have have they? Well did any of them guess…” He looked toward Bartolomeo who corroborated his distant memory.

“Geography of the Grand Line, I think? That sounds right. You sat in the front row, cause you were always a teacher’s pet, and I sat in the back so I could shoot spitballs atcha.”

Absalom cocked an eyebrow and Cavendish took back the reins to give a more thorough explanation. “We met in high school, fourteen years ago now, and were acquainted for two years before I graduated and started my full-time career.”

“High school sweethearts then?” Absalom sounded far too excited—that was the kind of story people would love to read about—but Bartolomeo nipped that in the bud with a loud laugh.

“Oh, hell no. Far from it. Cavendish was student body president and valedictorian and…what? A fuckin’…designated hall monitor? I was…not a faculty favorite. Golden boy and I butted heads more than a few times. I will admit though, for the record, I did have the hots for him back then and I obviously never got over that.”

“More of a…bickering rivals to passionate lovers angle?” The pen in Absalom’s hand scratched across his notepad as Cavendish and Bartolomeo exchanged a glance. 

“There’s still a fair amount of bickering,” Cavendish admitted, to which Bartolomeo added a nod of consensus. “But now we just call it foreplay.”

That was the kind of answer they were digging for: cheeky, suggestive without being overt. Suleiman appeared in the doorway with a cardboard tray of cups just as he responded and he nodded approvingly as Cavendish tried to keep his eyes from rolling. 

“We ran into each other again by dumb luck in the back of an Uber about three months ago,” Bartolomeo piped up in answer to the original question. “And now,” He nodded his thanks to Suleiman and took the offered cup of coffee. “Here we are.”

“Wow, what a story. I think I can say with confidence that nobody guessed that.” Absalom took the time to write down what he could glean of his two interviewees coffee orders before looking back up at Bartolomeo. “So, you’ve been a fan of Cavendish since even before the rest of us, and now you’re the lucky one who actually got him. Is that something you ever imagined? A teenage crush is one thing, but did you ever think that twelve years later you’d actually be…”

The journalist trailed off, casting a look toward the couple that was so knowing and lecherous that Cavendish felt his stomach turn.

“Raw doggin’ the hottest model in the New World?” There was a bite of annoyance in Bartolomeo’s tone, and he reached over to squeeze softly at Cavendish’s hand as he visibly reddened. If Absalom was going to try to bait them into giving needlessly explicit answers, then he was going to aggressively oblige. At the very least, that wasn’t something they could print in WEJ. “I mean, a man can dream,” he continued, satisfied by the discomfort evident in Absalom’s expression. “But nah, I didn’t think I had any real chance.”

“I see,” Absalom deflected. When he took a moment to scratch a few lines on his notepad, Cavendish gave Bartolomeo a kiss on the cheek. Although somewhat embarrassed, he was grateful that he had the occasionally more level-headed man there to keep things from escalating. 

“For those of us familiar with your work, how different is ‘Barto the Cannibal’ from the Bartolomeo that’s dating the world’s favorite model?”

“Well,” Bartolomeo absently crossed his leg over his knee and slung his arm across Cavendish’s shoulders. “Cav gets the benefit of all three extra syllables, for one. But, really, Barto’s not too different. I mean, he’s a heel so he’s just, me at my most aggressive and obnoxious. It’s less of a divide than some personas are, but there’s also less that the public knows about me than a lot of other guys, so there’s a bit of natural mystery I can use to my advantage.”

“Since you _have_ managed to keep a low public profile,” the reporter countered. “Are you concerned at all about the way your opponents might treat you now that you’re publicly dating a man?”

That wasn’t one of the questions that had been submitted for early vetting. As Cavendish and Suleiman both openly bristled, Bartolomeo narrowed his eyes. 

“No, I’m not. If anyone I’m fightin’ feels that way, I’m bettin’ we don’t get along well as it is. I’ve kept my personal life pretty private, sure, but I’ve never tried to hide my sexuality. ‘Sides, you’re acting like I’m the only wrestler in the world who’s into men. I can tell ya for a fact that I’m not and we aren’t just out there tryin’ to use our jobs as an excuse to get some man on man contact. Anyway,” he finished with a flippant shrug. “After this, everyone I’ve ever fought will be damn sure they ain’t my type.”

Suleiman snorted in amusement, breaking the tension. Absalom took that as his cue to return to his questions, valiantly avoiding Bartolomeo’s lingering glare when he looked up again. 

“Have you ever watched him fight, Cavendish?”

“Mmhm. I’ve been to one of his matches and watched another on TV.”

“And?” Absalom fished. “Is he as skilled a wrestler…outside the ring as he is in it?”

The euphemism was so bad that Cavendish wanted to ignore the question entirely, but it was one that Suleiman had given the green light, so he already had an answer prepared. 

His lips quirked into a smile that would be described to readers as ‘equal parts sly and coquettish.’ “Well, let’s just say that I understand why they call him a man-eater.”

Bartolomeo grinned despite the coloring of his cheeks and Cavendish tugged him down into a quick kiss, watching in his periphery as Absalom quickly took notes. 

“So, Cavendish,” Absalom shifted gears, turning his focus from Bartolomeo’s career to Cavendish’s. “You’ve made your name since your first big break into fashion as a sort of…sex icon for the modeling world. Is that aspect of your work going to change at all now that you’re in a committed relationship? And if not, how are you going to feel about those kinds of gigs, Bartolomeo? Knowing that the rest of the world is seeing something that might ordinarily be private for a couple that isn’t so prominently in the public eye.”

Cavendish hesitated, and when he stayed quiet long enough for Absalom’s eyebrows to rise, Bartolomeo answered his half of the question.

“I’m gonna feel the same way about those kinds of pictures as I always have: turned on as all hell. I mean, it’s his work, he can do whatever he wants behind the camera and it won’t change what happens between us behind closed doors. Plus, I used to be part of that demographic you’re sayin’ I should be jealous of, so I know what they’re thinkin’ when they see him like that: ‘damn, maybe someday I’ll have a chance with him.’ ‘Cept now, they’ll all be thinkin’ ‘damn, Barto’s one lucky son of a bitch,’ and they’re right about that.”

Cavendish laughed softly and piggybacked off of Bartolomeo’s response with a statement of his own. “Unless the industry is going to stop wanting me now that I’m in a relationship, I don’t think my career is going to change at all. I’m not going to choose to stop doing any sort of work that I’ve done in the past decade just because Bartolomeo’s in the picture, and,” He made a point of looking around the room. “You don’t have a mirror in here, so I’ll need you to tell me if I’ve suddenly gotten a lot less attractive now that I have a regular partner.”

“You certainly haven’t, I can assure you,” Absalom replied, with a little too keen of a smile for Cavendish to be comfortable with. 

Bartolomeo took a drink of his coffee and then patted a jokingly placating hand against Cavendish’s knee. “Don’t worry, babe, you’re still pretty. If anything, ya look even better with me hangin’ around.”

Cavendish smiled, at the deflection and the words themselves. While Absalom clicked absently through a few tabs on his laptop, Cavendish took a moment to pick up his own coffee again.

“If you don’t mind, I’ve taken the liberty of pulling a few reoccurring questions from your fans off of your social media accounts. The comment sections have been particularly lively the past three months, and there are a lot of people curious about the two of you.”

He looked more toward Suleiman than Cavendish for permission to continue, and nodded when Suleiman waved a hand in vague acceptance. 

“There’s a girl named Raegan who claims to have taken a picture of the two of you the night that you were seen together at the fair in October, and without an official statement from either of you, she’s become something of the authority online to lead the speculation that that was your first date. Is there any truth to that?”

“Mmm.” Cavendish set down his cup and pulled his phone from his pocket. He unlocked it, setting it on the edge of Absalom’s desk so he could see the picture still set as his home screen. “The picture is real, but that wasn’t our first date. I can’t speak for Barto, but at that point I was still a bit too scared of my own feelings to admit to them. That said,” He looked over at Bartolomeo. “I almost kissed you on the Ferris wheel.”

Bartolomeo smiled. “I definitely woulda kissed ya back. But I was still convinced back then that there was no chance in hell you’d ever feel about me the way I felt about you, so I was just happy to have a nice night out with a friend who I hoped could be more.” He shifted his gaze to Absalom. When the journalist tapped a finger against the picture still displayed on his desk and shot Cavendish a quizzical look, Cavendish nodded and took his phone back to send it to him. “Our first date was at All Blue, literally last night. But I guess we sorta made it official a few days ago.”

“With a grand romantic confession?”

Barto cocked his head, remembering the span of all of five minutes that it had taken them to get from Cavendish discovering his magazine stash to getting all but fucked on his kitchen counter. “Somethin’ like that.”

When Absalom realized he wouldn’t be getting any more detail than that, he reluctantly moved on. 

“An active follower of yours on Twitter would like to know which one of you takes longer to get ready in the morning. The consensus in the comments seems to be Bartolomeo.”

“Oh.” Cavendish frowned thoughtfully. “Well, we would’ve found out this morning if our plans hadn’t changed so quickly, but if I had to guess, I’d say I agree with the fans.”

Barto laughed and shook his head. “Nah, no way. That’s ridiculous. I’ve got _this_ ,” He gestured toward his mohawk, still messily immaculate despite the best efforts of Cavendish’s fingers. “Down to a science. When _you_ get up, you’ve gotta go through your closet that’s half the size of my entire fuckin’ house and decide what you can wear that ya haven’t already in the past six months so the _Enquirer_ doesn’t write an article about how you’ve fallen on hard times.”

Cavendish snorted and waved a hand in concession. “Fair enough.” He looked at Absalom. “Ask us again tomorrow.”

Sliding his gaze upward, Cavendish silently extended the implied offer for Bartolomeo to spend the night again, and Barto accepted with a grin.

“Can do. A lot of these questions run on the assumption that you’ve been dating for far longer than you have been.”

Absalom scrolled distractedly on his laptop, a momentary silence falling over the room that was broken only by the sound of Bartolomeo trying and failing to discreetly slurp the remains of his coffee.

“Sorry,” Absalom said finally. “Just one or two more and then we’ll be finished.”

He cleared his throat. 

“Um, someone recently called back to a former interview, Cavendish, where you discussed your preference for casual, no-strings-attached relationships, and talked about how forming a real emotional connection with someone was a hard thing to do when you’re a household name and everybody sort of knows everything and nothing about you at the same time. The question was then posed: what makes Bartolomeo different from the others who have come before him?”

Cavendish was quiet, and then blew out a long sigh. Bartolomeo waited for his response, as curious to hear his answer as his fans were.

“Well, it’s been…a bit of a struggle for me, these past few months,” he admitted. “When I first saw him again I had this distinct vision in my head of an awkward, abrasive fifteen-year-old, and it clashed quite harshly with…this.” He made a gesture toward Bartolomeo and then absently twined his fingers through the hand Barto still had on his knee. “I can say quite confidently that I was attracted to him the moment we reunited, at least physically, but I didn’t want to admit that, given our history, so I told myself that if I humored him for a couple of weeks I would remember why I thought he was so annoying back in high school and it would be easy for me to just move on to the next one-night stand.”

“And that didn’t happen?”

Cavendish looked up at Bartolomeo and smiled. “No, that didn’t happen. I don’t know when it was exactly that I realized I was in way too deep, but, by the time Bartolomeo admitted he wanted me, I knew that I wanted him too, and not just for a fling anymore. It was easy to make that genuine connection I’d never tried to or been able to find before because he _does_ know me. Better than I’d probably like, sometimes, but he’s still here in spite of that.” 

Cavendish took a sip of his coffee before continuing. “There’s something about him that’s…magnetic. He’s a very _intense_ person, and when that intensity’s focused on me, he makes me feel…” He paused to think about it, shrugging as a faint blush rose to his cheeks. “He makes me feel…precious.”

Bartolomeo squeezed his hand and leaned down to meet Cavendish halfway for a kiss. He murmured a soft “you are, Cav,” quiet enough that Suleiman and Absalom couldn’t hear, and Cavendish kissed him again.

“What is it for you then, Bartolomeo? What is it about Cavendish that makes him so ‘precious’?”

Barto pulled back, resting his head lightly atop Cavendish’s as he settled it onto his shoulder. 

“Uh, fuck…everything? I mean, there’s the shit everyone knows about him, that he’s gorgeous and talented and worth hundreds of millions of dollars.” Cavendish pursed his lips at Bartolomeo’s teasing answer and Barto laughed. “But there’s other stuff too. He’s a great kisser and an even better lay, but I guess I’m not the only one who knows that either.”

He gnawed distractedly at his bottom lip and then continued a moment later. “He’s a narcissistic little shit even on his best days, but he’s still so patient and caring on my worst. He uh…” Bartolomeo rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, a little embarrassed to be so candid about his affections with other people around to witness it. “He hums when he’s drivin’, even if he doesn’t have music playin’, and he always folds his napkin back up when he leaves a restaurant, and when he’s mad his nose crinkles up and he probably thinks he looks intimidating but it’s fuckin’ adorable. The easiest thing I’ve ever done in my life is fall in l—uh, f-fall for him,” Bartolomeo hastily corrected himself, a deep blush spreading across his features as he avoided Cavendish’s eyes.

When Cavendish brushed his thumb across Bartolomeo’s knuckles he chanced a quick glance down at him and his stomach fluttered at the warmth in Cavendish’s gaze.

Absalom had his pen in hand the moment Bartolomeo slipped up, thrilled by the chance he’d been presented. Suleiman cleared his throat and when Absalom glanced his way and Suleiman shook his head firmly, the reporter deflated a little and let his pen clatter back down again.

“Well then,” Absa began grudgingly. “Before I let you go, tell us, are there…any headlines we should be keeping an eye out for? Anything exciting that’s soon to come in the lives of what’s sure to be the world’s favorite new celebrity couple?”

Bartolomeo saw a flash of alarm cross Cavendish’s features before he managed to school them. Absalom didn’t appear to notice. 

“What’s next for the Prince of Fashion and Barto the Cannibal?”

As well as things had been going, they were only four days into their relationship and it seemed a bit premature to be making any sort of promises for their future, and certainly to be asking that they be made to the public before each other. Suleiman leaned forward in his chair, able to quickly identify the tension ratcheting its way through Cavendish’s frame and ready to intervene if needed. Bartolomeo spoke before that became a necessity. 

“Dinner, I think,” he said with a wide, easy smile. “I don’t know about Cav, but I’m starvin’.”

Cavendish laughed faintly, hiding his relief in the squeeze of their joined hands. “Absolutely famished,” he agreed. “And after that,”

Absalom looked up, pen scratching across his notepad as he wrote the bare outline of what would become the interview’s closing paragraph.

_The model looks at the wrestler beside him with genuine and open affection. And then he looks back at me, but really, he’s looking at all of us, here today to get even the barest glimpse into this thrilling, blossoming relationship. His shrug is coy and in this final moment he looks the most like the Cavendish we all know and love since he stepped into the studio._

“You’ll all just have to wait and see.”

* * *

At the crack of dawn, just a few days after the photo shoot, the newest edition of the World Entertainment Journal was loaded onto newsstands around the globe, anticipating the imminent digital release of what would quickly become one of the highest selling issues in the magazine’s history. 

A half hour after the doors were unlocked, in a market less than twenty miles from where WEJ’s hottest new couple was trying to enjoy their relationship’s last few moments of relative anonymity, another couple finished up their impromptu, emergency shopping trip, lest their green-haired friend realize his very busy husband had forgotten to buy the ingredients for his requested birthday onigiri. 

“Is there anything else we need?”

The tall, dark-haired woman looked up toward her husband with one eyebrow raised. 

“You’re the one with the list.”

“Well, I _was_ , but Tommy decided to steal it from me and he said he would only give it back to the most _super_ and beautiful woman in the world, so…”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Robin plucked the paper away from the toddler and looked it over.

“No, that’s everything.”

Nodding, Franky steered the cart toward one of the check-out lanes with a screeching sound effect that sent Thomas into a fit of giggles. 

As Franky entertained their son, Robin began setting their things onto the conveyor belt. Thomas quickly decided that watching his mother was a more interesting game than tugging on his father’s metal fingers and Franky’s gaze fell distractedly toward the rack of magazines alongside the cart. It took a full thirty seconds for his brain to catch up to his eyes.

“What the _fuck_?”

“F—”

Robin’s hand was over Tommy’s mouth before the word could be repeated and she gave Franky a questioning look.

He pulled one of the magazines free and tilted it so they could both see the cover.

“I’m not crazy, right? That’s our big fan? Uh, Bartolomeo?”

Robin nodded, flipping to the indicated section. The dozen page article included pictures of their old acquaintance in far less clothing and far more compromising positions than they’d ever seen him and while Robin skimmed the included—and _exclusive_ interview—Franky regarded the pictures thoughtfully. He didn’t know who the blond man was, though he looked familiar, but Bartolomeo was looking at him with an expression that Franky and the rest of Luffy’s friends were all too familiar with: absolute adoration.

Tossing the magazine onto the belt when the cashier pointedly cleared his throat, Franky pulled out his phone. After snapping a picture of the cover, he scrolled deep into his messages, finding the old group chat that none of them had failed to realize included eleven phone numbers instead of ten. 

On the other side of the city, a phone chimed.

Cavendish stretched luxuriously, basking in the early morning sunlight that filtered in through the thinly-curtained wall of full-length windows. He flexed his fingers and resettled his weight before pushing upward into a hummingbird pose as he listened to Bartolomeo’s tuneless whistling from the kitchen.

The coffee maker brightly exclaimed the end of its cycle, reminding Bartolomeo about the preceding noise. He cast a critical glance toward the pancakes on the stovetop before deeming them safe to temporarily abandon and moving across the room to his phone. 

Cavendish’s calming exercise was interrupted by a screech from the adjoining room and he scrambled up to find Bartolomeo staring wide-eyed at his phone. 

The text accompanying the picture was simply:

_‘Y’all think he’d go for a double date?’_

Three dots appeared on the screen, and when Barto saw the name attached to the incoming message, he felt his knees weaken.

 _‘TRIPLE!!!’_ came the enthusiastic reply. _‘I’ll bring Traffy!!!’_

Bartolomeo fainted.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, there! I started working on this last March when I binged through Dressrosa during my quarantine from work and fell in love with these two idiots, and it was supposed to be a one-shot, then turned into something almost three times as long as my Master's Thesis, so, that was cool I guess. Hope y'all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and if you're as into these two as I am, keep an eye out for an upcoming NSFW one-shot collection I'm writing for February that will heavily feature Cav and Barto gettin' it on in a variety of ways, mostly in this same Modern AU universe.


End file.
